Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Scott Hunter (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Lovers, Eating Disorders, Internalized Homophobia, Roommates, Light Dom/sub, Homophobia, Anxiety, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, Praise Kink, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autism, Orgasm Edging, Character Study, Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Hurt/Comfort

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-15 Completed: 2026-06-10 Words: 91,437 Chapters: 22/22

Golden Boy

Summary

Shane Hollander has every aspect of his life under control: his diet, his training, his sexuality.

But when he’s forced to share a room with his rival for the number one draft pick, Ilya Rozanov, he begins to question every rule he thought he had perfected.

Including the one where he would never want a man. Or worse, Ilya Rozanov.

 ——

Or: one year of college changes the trajectory of Shane Hollander’s life.

Notes

Content warning for Shane’s orthorexia and obsession with food. I have tried my best to approach it in a sensitive way, however if you think this might be triggering at all for you then I would recommend skipping.

Both characters are 18 despite it happening before the draft, due to some creative liberties by me about when their birthdays might fall in the year.

Lastly, the title is from ‘Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call’ by the Bleachers.

Chapter 1

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Shane Hollander freezes in the doorway of his new dorm room, eyes fixed on Ilya Rozanov reclined on the left-hand bed. “You’re my new roommate?”

“Guess so,” Ilya says, looking back down at his phone. The clicking of his fingers on the keys fills the silence of the room.

Shane inhales deeply through his nose, closing his eyes for a second before he turns to face his new bed.

“Please, just let me switch. I can go with anyone else.” Coach Murphy’s office stretches upwards around Shane, the towering shelves filled with rows of shining trophies.

“Hollsy. Shane. Look,” Coach says. “I know you and Rozanov don’t get along. But your overtraining and other…stuff—" he says with a vague wave of his hand, “—are damaging your hockey. I want my captain to be on top form for the draft this year, okay? And moving into a room with Rozanov is the best way for you to stay in top form. He volunteered to check that you’re not…overdoing things.”

Shane bows his head; his hands squeeze tight into fists by his sides, the muscles in his hands aching from practice yesterday. How he would love to drag Rozanov by his jersey and shove him down to the ice. Satisfaction, easy. Found in a simple punch at Rozanov’s smirking face.

But Shane Hollander doesn't get angry: he's a captain. He's responsible, calm, organised, and much too good at hockey to let people like Ilya Rozanov get under his skin. Or at least that’s what his mom tells him.

Shane opens his mouth to speak. Maybe he’ll plead: but Shane Hollander doesn’t do that either. He just accepts how things are. That’s hockey, that’s life.

When Shane looks up, Coach's face is pitying, his brows pulled together like he's trying to approach a wild animal and not get bitten. He would never have had that expression, before.

Before Rozanov.

Shane can still feel the way that his lungs had compressed, squeezed, each breath shorter, more gasping than the last. He can still hear the ugly crinkling of the snickers wrapper clutched in his grip, the way that he had folded into himself in the corner of the dining room.

Two-hundred and eighty calories of sugar festering in his stomach, fattening his muscles, unravelling the work he's done for the draft.

Shane hadn't noticed Ilya until it was too late. Until Ilya was next to him, saying hey like Shane wasn't shaking, like he and Rozanov were friends. He still feels the warmth of the broad hand on his back, the murmured instructions. The way that the people at the surrounding tables had ducked their heads and resumed their conversations under the weight of Ilya's glare.

Every weakness of Shane's, flooded to the surface.

And Ilya had decided to tell the coaches about it.

“Yes, coach,” Shane answers, his voice clipped. He’s striding out of the office, past the rows of shining trophies, before Coach can reply.

“I’ve drawn up a contract,” Shane announces as he flings open the door, returning from the library with various sheets of paper clutched in his hand.

“Okay,” Ilya says from where he’s lying on his bed, eyes on his phone. His posture is relaxed in a way that makes Shane want to go over there and fix it, scolding him like a mother. His leg is flung to the slide, the leg of his sweatpant half pushed up to reveal his calf. He doesn't look like someone taking the draft seriously. And yet he's here, in front of Shane, looking up expectantly.

“We need to agree to the terms of sharing a room.”

Ilya sits up slowly, releasing a put-upon sigh as he places his phone down on his bed.

“One: I’m in charge of what I eat and when I train. You can…watch, or whatever. But you’re not controlling it. I don’t care what the coaches told you. That’s how we’re doing it.”

Ilya nods, shrugging silently when Shane glances up at him. Someone walks past the door, humming a high-pitched tune; Shane shifts his feet, looking down at the paper again.

“Two: the dorm must be cleaned by both of us every other day,” Shane continues. “Three: I reserve the right to wake you up if you snore. Four: neither party should cross the centre line of the room without explicit agreement from the other party."

A smirk begins to grow on Ilya's face as he listens. Shane huffs out a breath before he resumes, his brow pinched.

"Five: in the event of a, uh—woman being in the room, permission must be sought at least three days in advance. Six—"

“What if it’s a man?”

The words don't register in Shane's mind, at first. And then his eyes flick upwards. His breath halts. He searches Rozanov’s face for any trace of laughter, for one of those jokes that those guys at school used to make.

Ilya’s face is entirely blank, his gaze firm. But Shane’s not falling for it this time.

People always say—

“I’m not gay,” Shane spits out.

“Well I am.” Ilya says, his voice steady as he stares at Shane. “Bi, actually. You have problem, Hollander?”

“What?” Shane says, his voice weirdly high-pitched. “No—I…” Now he’s speaking too loudly. Shane takes a breath, steps backwards. The air in the room is too hot, stifling. “I don’t have an issue with that. Just, uh—stick to the rules. Please."

“Okay,” Ilya frowns, eyes still fixed on Shane’s, his gaze curious.

Shane's hands retreat into the sleeves of his hoodie, his eyes flicking back up to Ilya, running over the blond curls, the cut of his jawline, the bulk of his arms. He's the kind of man the guys at school would want to be, not the one that they would make fun of for being gay. Bi. Whatever.

Although, Shane supposes, there is something pretty in the curve of Rozanov's lower lip, in the way that his eyelashes frame his eyes like they're the sweeping eyelashes of a woman. Ilya probably has no problem finding men or women to sleep with, probably has lots of experience. Maybe he even has a boyfriend.

“Can you just sign here?” Shane asks, voice only trembling a little as he steps forward, brandishing a pen at Ilya. His eyes flick around the room. Rozanov’s eyes remain fixed upon him with that same unreadable stare.

After a few awkward seconds, Ilya reaches out and takes the pen, signing his name next to Shane’s on the paper.

“We’re not eating breakfast until nine earliest, though,” Ilya adds when he finishes signing his name. It's a scribbled swirl of Russian: a stark contrast to Shane's signature. Ilya's sweeps across the line entirely in an elegant flurry of letters, whilst each letter of Shane's is traced in a perfect, uniform font. And Ilya's looks better than his. Of course.

“You should have told me that before you signed the contract. You’re not supposed to change the terms after signing,” Shane frowns.

Ilya’s mouth twitches as Shane speaks, one side drawing up in a half-smile. Shane turns away, his cheeks red as he sits down at his desk to start on some tape review.

The hours pass as Shane scribbles down notes, pulls his lip into his mouth and chews it as he watches himself on the screen. Sloppy pass, he thinks, the voice of his mom echoing through his mind. Good shot. Could be stronger, though. When every minute of footage from BU's last game has been watched, analysed from all angles, Shane unpacks his things into colour-coordinated sub-sections in his closet. He follows each step of his bedtime routine and then settles into his bed with a book in his hand and his glasses perched on his nose.

As he reads, he becomes aware of Rozanov’s eyes upon him. They've been on him the whole evening, curious and wandering over his body. Rozanov's so—unashamed in his curiosity. It makes Shane frown down at his book. Who the fuck does Rozanov think he is?

Five minutes earlier than planned, Shane reaches to turn off the light switch, blurting: “Remember that I can wake you up if you snore.”

“Okay.”

Shane folds himself into his duvet, pulling it up to his chin. There's a bird cawing outside, a voice down the hall. The shard of moonlight is too bright where it's coming through the curtain. Shane shifts once, then again, exhaling through his nose and holding his eyes firmly shut.

"Hollander," comes Ilya's voice, low and whispered through the darkness.

"Yes?"

There's a beat of silence before Ilya speaks. "Don't—tell anyone. About the bi thing."

Shane's silent for a moment. Something within him wants to draw this out, to make Ilya scared that his secret isn't safe. To make him feel like Shane felt, when Ilya went to the coaches—

"Please?" Ilya whispers through the darkness.

Shane pauses. "I won't." He sounds the words out carefully, his eyes fixed on the darkness above him. He feels as if he's losing some test offered to him by a hockey god, or the ghost of the Stanley Cup or something. He should be using the information to get under Ilya's skin, right? To get ahead of him somehow. That's what people who know what they want do, right?

Or maybe Rozanov is trying to get under Shane's skin. Shane turns onto his side to face Ilya, peering through the darkness as if the silhouette of Ilya's body, framed by the moonlight, might tell him the answer.

"Thank you," Ilya murmurs, the words seeming far closer to Shane than they should be. Ilya's facing him, he realises. As if he's doing the same thing that Shane's doing to him, trying to figure Shane out in return.

Shane turns over in bed to face the wall, his eyes wide and his heart unsteady in his chest. A high heart rate before bed is unhealthy. He needs to sleep. Shane closes his eyes and imagines himself walking up to their bedroom window and dropping the problem out of it. There, problem gone. He doesn't need to worry about Ilya's sexuality or the way that his voice had faltered as he asked Shane to keep it a secret. Shane can go back to worrying about his diet and training and the draft instead.

Things the way they should be.

The next morning, Shane wakes up to his usual seven a.m. alarm. He glances over at Ilya, who’s rolling around on his bed, groaning like a zombie at the blaring of the alarm and the glaring light from Shane’s lamp.

He looks stupid, Shane thinks with a burst of smugness. Once he's got ready, he reads through his emails as Ilya rolls out of bed behind him. Potential sponsorship deal, an assignment he nearly got a B on, a list of the upcoming games. He scrolls through each one, his hand tapping on the desk. It speeds up, slows down.

"Stop that," Ilya grumbles from nearby. Shane glances over: his shirt is halfway off his back, the broad expanse of it open to the room. It's contoured, with a light dusting of moles. It looks like any other back, Shane thinks with a frown. Sure, it's more muscular, more...manly, maybe, but whatever. It's a normal back. Whatever, whatever, whatever.

Shane just turns back to his laptop. He taps his fingers again against the desk, faster and faster; Ilya groans. Shane smiles.

"Let's go," Rozanov says eventually, and they head down to breakfast together as Coach wanted them to, their silence only interrupted when Ilya stops to take a photo of a squirrel that's sitting on a branch. Shane rolls his eyes, turning to face the cold breeze that's blowing through campus. There's at least the rest of the semester of this. Fuck.

In the cafeteria, Shane makes sure he has all his protein sources, and at least three types of fruit on his plate. And that his yoghurt is reduced-fat, and his oatmeal gluten-free, and that his eggs are scrambled, not fried.

Just like any normal athlete would, right?

He chews his lip as he arranges the fruit on his plate: three pieces of kiwi, three pieces of mango, half a banana. The kitchen staff seem to have cut the fruit up smaller today, though, right? Shane frowns. Would it be too much if he measured the dimensions of the food?

He stands, looking down at the food, the clattering of the dining room dulled around him. Maybe he could—

A hand is reaching out, sliding around Shane’s wrist. It's wide, warm, calloused. Shane looks up. Rozanov is there, speaking. “...Hollander," he's saying. "The food is fine. You think it's poisoned?”

"No, I—fucking hell," he sighs. "I just—" Shane glances at Ilya’s face. He takes in the determined expression, the slight furrow of his brow. He thinks about what Ilya told him last night and the information that Shane now holds over him. Bisexual, why did Ilya even tell him that?

"Whatever," Shane says, and strides towards a table, Ilya's footsteps behind him.

As they eat, Shane glances around at the groups of friends in the cafeteria, laughing together over their breakfast. Shane really should’ve made more friends, and then he wouldn’t be stuck eating in silence with Rozanov like they’re an arguing couple. Which wouldn’t even make sense, obviously.

“You finished with your food?” Ilya asks, as he swallows down the last of his oatmeal.

“No—I should eat the rest of the eggs. Protein, you know?” Shane says with a forced smile that turns into more of a grimace. Plates clatter nearby; someone's phone is ringing on the other side of the dining room. Shane looks back down at the plate of yellow egg. If everyone was just fucking quiet, then he could decide if he needs to eat these calories, if he's got enough protein, if coach will be happy.

“Put the rest in the food waste, Hollander. Don’t keep eating if you’re full."

“But—" Shane starts, then stops. He doesn’t have to finish his food. Sure. Things are more complex than that, though: Shane has more than himself to think about. But Ilya is watching, expectant, and the eggs are cold. There’s a beat of silence.

"Asshole," Shane whispers. He stands up, pushing his chair out behind him.

Ilya follows Shane to the trash can. He just lets out a snort of laugher in response.

They don’t see one another again until training in the afternoon, when Shane leads the team through warmups and then drills. He glares as he always does when he sees Ilya with his line-mates. It should be Shane who’s up there, playing as the top-line centre. If he just trained a little harder, just ate a little better. That could be him, like his mom had said. That should be him.

And god, Rozanov's play is annoying. It's all big hits and shots from far out. It's flashy, brash, the polar opposite of Shane's play: he's skilled, slipping past defensemen and slotting the puck into the goal.

Shane watches from the bench as Rozanov slams into their teammate.

"Gross, Rozanov, keep it up," calls Coach.

“I want to go to the gym,” Shane says when they’re back from training.

“Hollander,” Ilya replies, mouth full of protein bar. “Training literally just finished. Wait hour.”

“Whatever.” Shane huffs, turning towards his closet. "Clear your space on the floor. Your sweater is on my side of the room. You’re already breaking the contract.”

Ilya rolls his eyes, picking up the sweater and throwing it into his closet.

“Can you vacuum your side as well? We agreed that you would keep your side clean in the contract.” Shane stands with his hands on his hips as he watches Ilya. There’s something satisfying in hearing the huff that Ilya lets out at Shane’s words as he rolls his eyes again.

Instead of getting the vacuum, Ilya reaches back into his closet, pulling out some ridiculously large speaker and plugging it in at the wall.

“Don’t play—“

Russian drill music interrupts Shane, as Ilya fiddles with the speaker, a frown on his face as he increases the volume. The bass makes the floor vibrate; it fills Shane's brain with static until no thoughts can push in.

“Can you—“ he starts to say.

Ilya marches out of the room before Shane can tell him to turn off the music. Shane stares at the closed door, for a moment, his hands clenched into fists. Asshole. Asshole who took my spot and who's trying to control my life.

Shane marches to the speaker. He grips the wire and yanks it out of the socket, leaving it lying on the floor. The music stops; the room is silent. The way that Shane likes it: calm, reasonable, organised.

When Ilya returns, standing in the doorway with a vacuum in hand, his eyes widen when he sees the unplugged speaker. His eyes find Shane, first, with a glare, and then he strides over to it with his footsteps loud on the floor. He plugs it back into the wall, presses play, turns up the volume even more. The thumping bass hits Shane sideways; he feels dizzy, like he's drunk too much and his actions aren't his own any more.

The whole building can probably hear the music. People might come and knock on their door, glaring at Shane and wondering why the captain of the hockey team is so irresponsible. Or maybe the RA will come, or maybe—maybe the principal is in the building, somehow, and Shane's gonna get told off by him—Shane's breathing accelerates, his mind rushing through possibilities faster than he can catch up with.

So Shane’s only doing the moral thing when he reaches forward to unplug the speaker again. Before he can reach the plug, however, Ilya’s reaching out and grabbing Shane’s wrist, holding it tightly as he glares at him. His thumb presses into delicate tendons in Shane's wrist, encasing it in the warmth of his hand. They're wide and strong and exactly as a hockey player's should be. Asshole.

They’re stuck like that for a few moments, Shane’s eyes wide in surprise, before he’s reaching forward to push against Ilya’s chest with his free hand. It’s muscular under his touch, as Shane already knows from the locker room—

Ilya stumbles back, frowning in irritation before he reaches down and turns the volume up on the speaker even further. He smirks back at Shane, and Shane moves forward with something defiant burning up inside him, something that makes him want to wipe that stupid look off Ilya's face. Shane unplugs it; the music stops.

"Can't you just do something quietly, for once," Shane says. Rozanov's face is blank again, like it always is. "You're so obsessed with getting people's attention."

Rozanov's lip curls upwards; it's almost invisible, but it's enough. Ha, he cares.

"You're just as bad as I am, Hollander," Rozanov says. His eyes are unblinking. They're irritatingly blue.

There’s a sharp rap on the door.

“Shit,” they both say.

The RA ends up confiscating Ilya’s speaker. He puts a line of tape in the middle of the room, smiling at them both; he just sees the picture-perfect rivalry the media want. Two top prospects, a little friendly rivalry.

Someone is shouting down the corridor; rain is tapping on the roof. The silence of the room is stifling, so Shane opens the window, taking a gulp of the rainy fresh air.

Ilya is lying on his own bed, his feet up against the wall, a frown on his face.

That burning thread of anger has abated as Shane looks at him. Instead he feels—humiliated, maybe? Like he's done something that he shouldn't, and that he needs to repent for it. He needs to get back to the Shane that's hard working and disciplined. The one that would be prepping for the draft right now. Seven months to go. Seven months to make himself into the Shane Hollander that everyone thinks he is.

Shane's phone buzzes where it's laying on the bed next to him. It's a message from his mom, an article about him.

'What's Next for Hockey's Golden Boy?' reads the title. Shane reads the first paragraph reluctantly. It talks about the draft, of course. About the competition with Ilya. Nothing new.

Shane sighs, putting the phone face down on the bed. “I'm going to the gym,” he says.

Ilya follows him through the rain, as their hair gets soaked and it drips down their backs, the sun hidden behind heavy clouds. Shane's fingers move by his side like they're about to grasp a hockey stick or a dumbbell; he wants to feel the ache of exertion in his limbs, spreading through them, dulling the world around him.

When they enter, it's empty, and he heads for the weight section, adding weights to the bar for a weighted squat.

Ilya settles onto a stationary bike behind the squat rack. There’s a mirror in front of them, and Ilya watches Shane in the reflection, his legs pumping leisurely on the pedals. “You need a spotter?” he asks.

“No.” Shane's voice is breathless as he pushes back up from his first squat to a standing position. His left knee twinges. He really should’ve warmed up; but he continues squatting up and down anyway, trying to avoid eye contact in the mirror with Rozanov. Ilya’s eyes, meanwhile, stay fixed on Shane as he cycles.

It feels—almost obscene: he can feel Ilya’s eyes on his ass each time he presses down into a squat. It makes Shane want to work harder, to show Ilya how strong he can be. To show Ilya that he should be the top-line centre, that he is the one with the power, here, the one who works hardest and tries the most.

“Push your chest up. Your form’s going.” Ilya’s voice, sharp and clear, cuts through Shane’s thoughts.

“Shut up.” Shane follows the directions anyway.

As Shane begins his third set of squats, the exercise has become so strenuous that he’s hardly noticing Ilya any more. His face is red and sweat is dripping from his brow, making his eyes water. His breathing is ragged. But he needs to do this—needs to keep working. Keep pushing.

Ilya’s frowning now as he watches Shane, that gleam gone from his eyes. Instead, his brow is furrowed. If he thought Rozanov was capable of honest concern, Shane would call it that.

The room is unbearably silent except for the faint squeaking of Rozanov's bike as he pedals. “Hollander,” he says.

“Just—just let me—“ Shane pants as he pushes up into his tenth squat, his vision clouding and legs trembling. His form’s going.

Ilya stands up from the bike, marching towards him. It throws Shane off balance, his chest collapsing further inwards as he pushes up with a groan.

“It’s time to stop,” Ilya says as he comes up to Shane from behind.

Shane ignores Ilya, continuing to force himself up and down with a groan, the twinge in his left knee growing. "Fuck off," he gasps out.

“Hollander.” Ilya moves closer towards him. “You’re going to injure yourself. Time to stop.”

“No,” Shane blurts out, his voice hoarse as he pushes up again.

“Hollander,” Ilya says. “Shane.“

Shane’s left leg buckles inwards, bending at an odd angle as a shot of pain runs up through his knee. A whimper escapes his mouth, his legs refusing to straighten under his body.

Suddenly, Ilya’s arms are lifting the bar back onto the rack, cushioning Shane as they sit back on the floor. Rozanov's breathing is heavy above him; Shane's knee is aching.

He swallows hard, like he's about to burst into tears. He's not going to do it, of course. He doesn't do that. He's just—overwhelmed, maybe. He doesn't know. Just needs the rush of thoughts to stop, for his brain to be silent for a moment, for the lump in his throat to go.

After a few minutes, Ilya murmurs: “Let me look at your knee.”

“It’s fine,” Shane begins. “I just bent it weirdly.”

Ilya ignores him, pushing Shane gently forwards until he’s no longer leaning against him. He moves round to sit next to Shane’s knee, lifting Shane’s leg as he moves it into his lap. His hands brush over the knee, eyes tracing over it carefully for any signs of injury. Shane lies back again the floor. Rozanov can entertain himself with Shane's knee. Shane just needs to let his body lay here, to wait for the heaviness in his limbs to abate.

“Where does it hurt?” Ilya asks.

“It doesn't hurt."

"Fine," Ilya says, and goes back to testing the range of motion in Shane's knee. “I think you strained the muscle. Can you walk? We should put some ice on it back at the dorm, as—precaution, you say?”

Shane glances back at Ilya, at the way he's holding Shane's knee gently in his lap. He sighs, then nods. Ilya pulls him up by his arm, and tries to slide an arm underneath Shane’s shoulders.

“I can walk by myself.” Shane pushes Ilya's arm away.

"Whatever," Ilya says, eyes fixed on the floor.

Shane limps the rest of the way back to the dorm with a frown on his face, aiming occasional glances at Ilya, whose face remains perfectly blank. The rain is coming down more heavily now, huge droplets that splatter against the concrete and run into Shane's eyes.

Back at their dorm, Ilya pulls Shane onto his bed and manhandles his leg across his lap again. He places an ice pack on Shane’s knee that he’d found in the dorm’s first-aid kit, saying: “Just precaution. But you should go see trainer tomorrow, just in case.”

Shane nods. "You're annoying," he says.

"You're annoying too."

"My knee is fine, I promise. Go over there." Shane points at the bed across the room, his eyes half-lidded. Ilya's hand is still cradling his knee, the other pressing the ice pack upon it. Its cold seeps into Shane's skin, a contrast to the warmth of Ilya's hand on the underside of his knee.

"Okay," Rozanov says. A little breath of laughter is the last thing Shane hears.

Chapter 2

The next morning, Shane wakes up to the sound of his usual alarm for morning practice. His bed is warm and comfortable around him, and he releases a disgruntled sigh at the thought of having to get up for morning skate. Opening his eyes, Shane reaches out to turn off his alarm—

His alarm’s across the room, and Ilya Rozanov is lying in Shane’s bed, which means—Shane is in Rozanov’s bed.

“Turn th’ ‘larm off,” Ilya groans.

Shane jumps up, scrambling to switch it off. Heat crawls up his neck. He was in Rozanov’s bed. He must’ve fallen asleep there when Ilya was icing his knee.

Shit.

“Morning practice is in thirty minutes,” Shane snaps, frowning at Ilya still wrapped up in Shane’s duvet. Now it'll smell like Ilya. Which—whatever.

“Hmph,” is the only reply he gets.

When Shane has got fully ready for practice, fifteen minutes early, he lies back on his bed and looks at the ceiling. Ilya clatters the closet doors, swearing under his breath in Russian, whilst Shane runs over their upcoming games. Or tries to: he can see Ilya's movements in the corner of his eye, a flash of skin as he pulls a t-shirt over his head, the blonde curls that women love.

Shane sighs, sitting up, and going to his desk and picking up his blackberry.

Bisexuality, he types into the search engine.

Hockey player bisexual.

Can hockey players be gay?

He scrolls through the results. Why has the MLH not had any openly gay players? reads the top result. Shane swallows; the room is suddenly silent.

"What are you doing?" comes a voice from behind him. Shane jumps, his chair jolting with the force of it. He whips his phone down, turning it off with fumbling hands.

"Fuck off," he says, turning and pushing at Ilya's chest without looking at him. How long has Ilya been there? Shane’s pulse is hammering; Ilya is too close, too curious. "Fuck off," he says again, and reaches for his bag. He strides towards the door, Rozanov silent, and lets it slam behind him.

Asshole.

The team start morning practice in the gym, Shane joining them after he’s got his knee checked out by the physio.

He starts off with his usual weighted lunges, the physio watching over his form whilst Coach stands nearby, a clipboard in hand. With each rep, Shane narrows his mind down to the tension in his thigh, holding it tight as the ache of exertion spreads through his body until he stands, and the tension flows out again. Predictable and contained.

Shane feels Ilya's presence from across the gym. He's sprawled across the seat of a rowing machine, his legs spread wide across the sides; his chest is rising and falling in a quick, sharp beat, his cheeks pink and a sheen of sweat across his brow. Shane's eyes run downwards: Ilya's legs are contoured with muscle, his gym shorts stretching around them.

The image of a perfect hockey player. Shane swallows. He pushes down again into the lunge, exhaling slowly; equipment clatters behind him, coach scribbles something down on his clipboard.

Shane's gaze is pulled back to Ilya again, as if by its own accord.

Ilya's head turns to the side. His gaze finds Shane.

Shane wonders what Ilya sees—the cut of his muscle, maybe, smaller than Ilya's, or the weight held on his shoulders, or the frown of the physio as he watches over him. Or maybe he saw Shane's searches this morning; maybe he's laughing to himself about it.

Fucking asshole.

"Three more reps," Coach Murphy says, taking a step closer. Shane pushes down into another lunge, sighing as the ache of exertion washes over him once more.

On the ice, Coach makes them bag-skate: they pound up and down the rink, their faces bright red and their breaths gasping. Coach's whistle echoes across the ice, whilst Ilya smirks at Shane as they wait for each whistle, his movements striding and long. When Shane reaches the wall first, he can't help but look across at Ilya, his face triumphant as he gasps for breath.

Ilya just smirks back at him.

And Shane smirks right back. This, on the ice, is easy: it’s a simple rivalry, for the cameras. The kind that people make jokes about.

When the rest of the team leave, Shane stays as he always does to practice his wrist-shots, Ilya doing the same at the other end of the ice. They fire puck after puck at the goals as the clattering of sticks and the chatter of voices fade, the team heading for the changing room. The rink quietens, leaving only the echo of their sticks on the ice and their sharp exhales of breath when they shoot.

Shane loses himself in the thwack of the puck in the back of the net. He lands shot after shot, one in each corner of the net. Thwack. Top left. Thwack. Top right.

The puck cracks against the boards at the other end of the rink, interrupting Shane's rhythm. Ilya swears; Shane grits his teeth as he puts all his weight behind his next shot. It sails towards the goal, then deflects off the crossbar with a cracking noise. Shane sighs and reaches for another puck. Sloppy.

The sound of skates approaches behind him.

“Missed,” Ilya chirps into Shane’s ear, skating past and shooting his own puck into the top-left corner. It slots into the goal and falls down to the ice, gliding silently across it.

Shane looks up at bright white lights of the ceiling. He exhales slowly, gripping his stick more tightly in his hands.

“Well you’re not bending your knees enough when you shoot, dumbass,” he says, skating after Ilya. He reaches out to poke his stick into the back of his knee. Ilya wobbles, his knee giving way, and then he rightens himself with a huff of laughter.

Shane skates away up the ice, trying to suppress the grin that's creeping onto his face at the way that Ilya's arms had flailed like a helicopter.

“Hey,” Ilya shouts. “Come here right now, Hollander.” He charges up the ice and hits Shane with his shoulder. He takes his gloves off, throwing them across the ice in an imitation of a fight. His hands are pink from practice. Shane pauses. He doesn't normally fight, but—he kinda wants to blow off some steam. Wipe that look off Ilya's face, maybe. Ilya watches, expectant; Shane pulls his gloves off, throwing them across the ice. He's joking, he thinks, when he shoves at Ilya and sends him careening backwards. Mostly.

"Okay," Rozanov smirks, and moves closer to Shane, his hands up. He makes a grab at Shane's jersey, and Shane grabs his jersey back; Ilya's breath is hot against his neck, their hands on each other as they push and pull at each other. Ilya's hands grasp his, Shane's elbow jerks into Ilya's abdomen. Somehow, Shane finds a breathless smile on his face, his breath coming in pants. The cameras would like this: a picture-perfect image of the rivalry for the number one pick, Shane thinks.

"Asshole," Shane says, and suddenly they're falling down onto the ice, scrabbling around, pushing each other to the ground as they roll over. The ice is freezing against Shane's back as he tugs at Ilya's jersey. He lifts his knee to push it against Ilya. It's a fake fight, sure. But he's not going to let Rozanov win.

He pushes his knee further into Ilya's stomach, grins at the way that Ilya grimaces. He lifts his other knee up to gain some leverage against the weight of Ilya's body—and suddenly, Ilya’s straddling Shane.

Shane’s breath leaves him all at once. He takes in the image of Ilya above him, the squeezing pressure of Ilya legs on his hips.

He can feel the moment Ilya realises, the moment his legs tighten around Shane's sides. A smirk begins to grow on his face. Shane couldn't move, even if he wanted to. Ilya would probably stop him, would probably use his hips to do it, and Shane—Shane pushes his hips up, just—just to see.

It's not within his control, he tells himself.

His hips are met by Ilya's body, pressing down, pushing him onto the cold, hard ice.

It looks like Ilya’s fucking him.

Shane’s eyes are wide as he looks up at Ilya. He hates— He wants—

“I knew you wanted this, Hollander,” Ilya smirks, arrogance dripping from his voice as he looks down at Shane. “I could tell.”

Ilya’s voice cuts like a knife through Shane’s thoughts.

He’s not—he doesn’t—can Ilya tell?

Shane suddenly feels burning hot. He feels like he could fight Ilya, for real. He's never got into a fight before, but his hands are twitching like he could really, really, punch Ilya. Wipe that stupid fucking smirk from his face.

I hate you, Shane wants to say, and see hurt written across Ilya's face in response.

“Shut the fuck up, Rozanov,” Shane spits instead. He gets enough force in his legs to push Ilya to the side, standing shakily and skating down the ice. He picks up his discarded gloves. His vision blurs. Was he always this obvious?

“Hollander,” Ilya calls from behind him. “Wait—"

‘It’s fine, Rozanov,” he calls, his voice wobbly. “We’re late to team breakfast.” He doesn’t want this. He shouldn’t want this. It’s stupid, dangerous for the sake of what? Just because Rozanov has pretty lips and nice thighs and that goddamn awful smirk?

“Hollander.” Ilya murmurs as he reaches Shane. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Shane snaps. He steps off the ice, throwing his stick into the rack with a clatter. It's too loud; but the rink is too quiet, Rozanov too close. "Fuck," he says, swiping a hand over his forehead as he strides back to the changing room. He can hear Rozanov's footsteps behind him.

The locker room is empty when they arrive, the team already heading to breakfast. Shane stares determinedly at his feet as they strip down on opposite sides of the room, pulling towels round their hips and walking to the shower in silence.

Shane lets the cold water rush over him, chilling the burning flush on his skin. Two showers down, Ilya is doing the same. Shane can see the muscles of his back rippling as he lathers soap across his chest; a droplet of water falls from his soaking wet hair. Shane's eyes run downwards. He swallows tightly. Ilya’s—Ilya’s ass is something.

And—god. His cock’s—proportional to his ass. A jolt runs through Shane, twisting his stomach. He turns back to face the wall, pushing his head under the cold stream of water and letting it run down his face.

When Shane pulls his head out from under the water, glancing back towards Ilya, Ilya's eyes are on him. On Shane's cock. They're curious, almost, unashamed as they look at him.

Shane looks away. He rakes a hand through his soaking wet hair, letting the strands get caught in his hand so that they tug painfully at his scalp. Nothing works.

Shane stares at the blank expanse of the wall for a second, then two, his breaths unsteady. He looks at the condensation dripping down it, tries to will his cock to go down by force alone. But it's a losing battle, as if a thread is tugging his gaze to turn and face Ilya. Shane's body turns an inch, then two.

I knew you wanted this, Hollander. Shane hears the word in his head as if it's the very first time; he sees the smirk on Ilya's face as he looked into Shane's eyes and saw too much.

So when he meets Ilya's eyes and sees them on his cock, he doesn't move. He just swallows down the nausea in his throat. And then, silent, he walks back into the changing room, wrapping a towel over the hardness of his cock.

They arrive to the team breakfast embarrassingly late.

“Rozanov needed some help with his wrist-shot, so I had to stay. Sorry, team,” Shane says as he approaches the table.

Ilya throws Shane a glare as they grab their food, Shane too distracted by smirking at Rozanov to bother inputting his food into his nutrition app.

They’re forced to sit in the only two remaining seats, next to each other, as the team chatters around them.

“Apparently Coach might add in another gym session to the schedule,” JJ says, lifting a forkful of scrambled egg to his mouth. “Said we’re not fit enough.”

“Yeah, right—“ Ilya laughs. “He’s just trying to find an excuse for why we’re playing bad when it’s really his shitty coaching.”

“He’s not a shitty coach,” Shane frowns. “And he’s right. We do need to be more fit.”

“We already do five gym sessions a week. Any more and he’ll be giving us injuries, Hollander.” Ilya has turned to face Shane, his stare defiant. There's something in the way that Rozanov sounds out every syllable of his name that makes him want to... he doesn't know. Do something to Ilya. Maybe punch him.

“You two are exhausting,” Hayden interjects. “Shut up and eat your breakfast.”

“We lost to BC because we weren’t fit enough,“ Shane begins, turning to face Ilya and ignoring Hayden.

“No, we lost because coach made you play almost thirty minutes—“ Ilya starts.

“I can deal with—“

“No, you—“

“Stop!” Hayden interrupts. “Can you both just finish your breakfast? The team’s waiting for you guys to finish.”

Shane and Ilya let out a simultaneous huff, turning back towards their breakfast. Shane looks up to see the eyes of the whole team upon them.

Right—he should get back to eating. But now the whole team is looking as he eats. Maybe he should just stop eating, so they can leave. Shane's fingers run along the cuff of his hoodie, finding a loose end and pulling at it.

But he also needs to eat more calories to gain muscle. So—he should keep eating. Maybe even go and get some more food, since he probably hadn’t got enough protein, and he hasn’t even checked the nutritional information of his meal—

Ilya’s knee brushes against Shane’s under the table. It's a feather-light touch at first, a tiny brush of their knees. Shane pauses, and Ilya's knee presses more firmly onto his so that he can feel Ilya’s warmth through his sweatpants. Shane glances over. Ilya's chewing on his food, the rest of the team resuming their chatter.

Shane releases a breath. Picks up his fork again, the movements mechanical.

“By the way, my wrist-shot is amazing,” Ilya leans over to murmur in Shane’s ear as they eat.

Shane smiles at his plate as he lifts a forkful of food to his mouth.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of biology notes and math classes. Periodically, the image of Ilya in the shower pops into Shane’s head. The intensity of his stare, the muscles of his chest. The shape of his hand; how it might look wrapped around his cock.

Shane doesn’t end up getting any work done.

He meets Ilya in the dining hall for lunch, and invites Hayden to join, who says with a glance between them as they sit down with their food: “Didn’t know you two got along now.”

“We don’t get along,” Shane frowns. “Just—coach told us to eat together so that we… get along better, I guess. That’s why he put us in the same room as well.” Shane's shoulders tighten as he looks across at Ilya. If Ilya dares to say anything about—

“Wait—you two are in the same room?” Hayden laughs. “How many fights so far? Any broken noses?”

“Shane’s made a very helpful contract to avoid fighting,” Ilya grins, bumping Shane with his shoulder. “Only a few arguments so far. I am worried for my nose, though.”

“You should be,” he says, only half joking.

As they eat, they chatter about their upcoming games. It's almost enjoyable. Whilst the team has always been drawn to Ilya’s brazen confidence, Hayden is Shane’s only real friend on the team, so it’s nice to hear another voice.

But then Shane remembers the smirk in Ilya’s words, the cruel confidence of it. I knew you liked this. I could tell.

So Shane stays quiet, his shoulders held tight as they eat.

“I shouldn’t have got this lemonade,” Hayden says, his voice cutting through Shane’s thoughts. “Coach said I should eat healthier,” he groans, leaning back against his chair and picking up the lemonade anyway.

Shane looks down at his own tray, where there’s also a glass of lemonade. Ilya had smiled at Shane as he reached for it. It wasn’t a smirk, for once, either. It was maybe even a little timid, as far as Rozanov’s smirks go.

But Hayden’s right—hockey players should eat healthily, should avoid refined sugars. Especially a hockey player that wants to be the first overall pick.

He can almost taste it, on his tongue, the sweet bubbles that he’s not had in so long.

But he can’t. He’s an athlete; athletes need discipline. And Shane Hollander is disciplined.

There are some girls at a nearby table; Shane can see the way they’re looking over, giggling, whispering to each other.

Out of the window is the hockey arena in the distance. On the field beneath, people who go to his games; people who expect Shane Hollander, star athlete, golden boy. They expect it every time. They don’t want someone who gives in and drinks lemonade because what—it tastes like the lemonade he drank when he was younger?

Shane goes to stand. His hands twitch like he’s about to step onto the ice.

But then: a hand slides onto his leg, squeezing tightly just above the knee. Shane glances at Ilya, who’s looking straight ahead, chewing on a cookie. He tilts his head to look at Shane.

Shane, wide-eyed, looks back at Ilya. Is it seriously going to be like this at every mealtime?

Well, Shane thinks, he doesn’t care. When his hand reaches for the lemonade it’s because it’s been a long time since he’s had one. Because actually, it can sometimes be healthier to micro-dose sugar.

He takes a sip.

It’s cold and refreshing and it’s sharp on Shane’s tongue.

Shane pauses to see if that same panic that he felt when he ate the snickers bar begins to rise in his chest. He catalogues his body, the steady thrum of his heartbeat and the steadiness in his hands. Huh. No panic, no nothing.

Ilya offers him a small, soft smile when they eventually stand up to leave. Patronising, Shane thinks. He doesn’t want pity.

So he frowns in return, of course.

Shane does everything he's supposed to, that day: he visits Coach to discuss their upcoming game, he stretches on the floor of the empty dorm room, he phones his mom and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, a little. He's not even sure what he's looking for, really, as his eyes examine the muscles of his arms. They're stronger than before. His diet is working, the training, the fifteen more grams of protein each day. His arms aren't as big as Ilya's though: he wonders if Ilya notices. If he's happy that his rival isn't as strong as him, if he thinks that Shane is less attractive because of it.

He wonders if this is what Ilya likes—strength and muscle, or if he likes slender men and will bring one back to the dorm and fuck him right there on his bed. Shane swallows; his arm tenses. His dick is almost aching underneath the towel from not coming in so long.

The door swings open; a teammate walks in.

"Hollsy," he says, and slaps Shane on his bare shoulder as he heads into a cubicle. Shane holds himself back from flinching, and then strides out of the bathroom with his hands gripping onto the towel where it's wrapped around his waist.

In the dorm, the golden light of the lamp is cast over Rozanov's face as he reads. It looks like a Russian book, maybe. He looks up when Shane walks in, watching him for a moment, and then looks down again. Shane pulls on his clothes, fumbling, his cheeks red, and slides under the covers with his own book.

Soon, he's clicking the light off, the room is falling into darkness. Rozanov is nothing but a shape across the room.

Shane shifts, as he always does, trying to find a comfy position. The sheets are too tight around him, so he kicks them off, then pulls them back on again. The room is too cold, his body under the sheets too hot. Ilya Rozanov is bisexual.

Shane sits up in bed, staring into darkness across the room.

"How did you know?" he asks. His voice is too loud, and Ilya rolls over in bed.

"Know what?"

"Why did you think I would like that? At the rink, today?"

Ilya's voice is careful, almost whispered. "I have a great gaydar."

"What?"

"I can tell. People's eyes, and shit. Where they look." Shane is silent. His breathing is hoarse, too fast, and there's a bead of sweat on his temple even though the room is cold and campus is enveloped in winter. Ilya continues. "People's eyes. If they look at my lips; if they look away too fast. Little things. If I seem them enough, I know."

Shane pulls the duvet over himself completely, up to his chin. He holds it tight, and his chest too, forcing his breathing to sound steady. "You're arrogant," he says instead. "You think you know. You don't. Work on your gaydar, asshole." The words seem to lose steam as they come out of his mouth, growing quieter and quieter until he's hardly sure that Rozanov can hear.

On the other side of the room, Ilya is quiet. He turns over in bed, so Shane does too, eyes wide and looking into the darkness.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep. But he doesn't let himself move an inch; he keeps the duvet tight around him and his whole body poised until he plummets into sleep.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

I’ve been doing lots of editing and i added so much to chapter two that I had to split it into two parts! sorry for any confusion if anyone got a notification. <3

"Face-offs," Coach shouts at practice the next morning. Shane is already at centre ice, waiting. Ilya joins him, silent, and neither looks at the other until the puck is dropping and their sticks are clattering, their skates cutting across the ice, their breaths harsh and their bodies close. Shane gets the puck, but Ilya is after him, his body slamming him into the boards and his stick grappling for the puck.

"Hollander," Ilya frowns when they're done, his chest heaving and a grin on his face. "Next time."

Rozanov is right: next time, he snatches the puck from Shane and the game is beginning all over again.

Five face-offs won each, by the end of practice.

When the rest of the team heads to the changing room with their chatter receding, Shane stays on the ice again. Ilya remains at the other end, their sticks snapping against the pucks and slotting into the net. This time, neither approaches the other: when Ilya skates off the ice, Shane does too, following his receding form to the changing room. Captain leaves practice last, always.

In the shower, things are quiet. Water splashes against the tiles, steam rising. A stream of soap runs down Ilya's body, sliding over the smooth curve of his pecs, over the muscles of his abdomen, running down the inside of his contoured leg. His eyes are shut, his eyelashes long against his face, his head turned up into the shower.

Shane has always known that Ilya Rozanov makes girls salivate. But now it's here, in front of his eyes. It's the kind of confidence that a comes from a big dick and being an asshole, the kind that a work ethic like Shane's can't buy. Well, fuck that: Shane doesn't want it. Fuck Ilya Rozanov and his big fucking cock.

Shane turns to face the dripping shower wall. He looks at the faded grey of the tiles and the condensation gathered on them. Ilya sighs next to him. Attention seeking, Shane thinks, and then looks back: Ilya's body is held like a Greek statue, like Achilles holding a discus with the muscles of his body poised, like someone has carved out every contour of his body with purpose. Shane looks back at the wall. His chest is tight; he can feel his cock growing harder. He wants to reach a hand down, to grasp his cock and to squeeze, just a little. Just to relieve some of the pressure. Just to feel, for once, what it could be like. Just to get a taste, with Rozanov.

Instead, Shane presses his forehead to the dirty shower wall. The condensation is hot on his forehead. It makes his breath faster, his chest tighter; he squeezes his fist tight against his side, tighter and tighter and tighter. His dick is aching. He can't touch. He won't.

There's a movement next to him. Ilya's head is lifted, tilted with his mouth wide open, water running into it. Fucking gross, Shane thinks. He looks fucking obscene, like he should be in a porno, or on a magazine, or trying to seduce some woman. Not here, in a sweaty changing room with his captain. With his rival for the draft. With the guy who he told Coach had an issue with food.

"Gross," Shane huffs. Ilya turns his gaze towards Shane. He's smirking. Arrogant.

Shane's cock twitches. Ilya looks down; his smirk grows.

Yeah, sure, Shane's fucking hard. Because he hasn't got himself off in too long. Because Ilya is doing that posing shit next to him. Because his body is too tense and he needs an outlet. It's not really because of Rozanov, but Rozanov will tell himself that it is. Gaydar, fuck off. Shane can get hard whenever he wants and it doesn't have to mean anything. He pushes himself under the stream of water. It's hot, as it floods down his back, making his breath unsteady.

Rozanov drags the soap suds across his chest, across the muscles that look like they're carved there, across the skin that's shining in the water.

Shane looks down.

Ilya's cock is as big as he remembered. Fucker. It twitches under Shane's gaze. It's hard, curving up towards his stomach, heavy and swollen. Shane's mouth waters; Ilya doesn't move. His eyes just remain on Shane, watching, waiting.

The rest of Ilya's face is carefully blank, and Shane knows what that means. It's a look he's seen too many times on the faces of his teammates as they sit in a bar, some girl caught in their gaze: it means casual, it means fun, and it means it's a one-off.

Shane pauses. The steam is heavy around him.

Maybe Shane can do a one-off. Just to see, just to try. Just to get the feeling out of his system. He can be like the guys that find a girl and fuck her, then find someone new the next night, each face anonymous. Just a body. It won't matter that it's Ilya Rozanov. It won't matter that it's Shane Hollander.

“You won’t—“ Shane begins. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”

Ilya keeps his eyes on Shane. “Never, Hollander. I promise.”

Shane turns himself to face Ilya fully, his breathing ragged as he sees Ilya’s eyes continue to trace over his body. They linger on his thighs, wandering over his chest and back down to his cock. He drinks in the sight like Shane is a girl in a bar. Like they're not two men. Like they're not teammates, or roommates, or any of those things that make this incredibly, unbelievably stupid.

“You want to?” Ilya says.

Shane takes a sharp breath in. Just bodies. Just a one-off.

“Please,” he blurts out. Fuck, why did he say that? But Ilya's hand is moving down anyway, caressing his cock, grasping it, running up and down it. Watching Shane.

It’s stupid. It's too much. But Shane wants it so much he can hardly breathe.

Ilya nods his head at Shane, and Shane does what Ilya wants him to. He runs his hand down his body and grips his cock. It makes him inhale sharply, a gulp of humid air that makes him want to gasp. His cock is straining, desperate, sensitive to each brush of his fingers. He opens his mouth a little, like he's going to suffocate if he doesn't get any air in. He moves his hand faster. Ilya's hand gets faster too, in sync with their ragged pants.

Shane glances at Ilya's cock. Ilya's hand is wrapped around it, stretched impossibly wide. He's—big, really fucking big. He must have no problem finding girls, or guys. This is probably some regular thing, for him.

Shane's eyes wander up Ilya's arm, to the way that the muscles tense with every stroke, the way that the foreskin gets pulled back, the way that the water runs over it and it grows harder, bigger, with every movement. He wonders how it feels inside of women. How deep it goes, how wide it stretches them. How it feels with men. Is it even possible to get it inside of a man?

Shane catches himself from staggering, reaching out his hand to the shower wall to keep himself steady. He feels dizzy with it, breathless, like he's just tried a drug and it's roaring through his veins, taking possession of his body. He wants to move closer; he wants to see how Ilya's cock looks inside of someone; he wants to see what it looks like when Ilya is fucking, how his face changes, how he moves.

Ilya's cock is right fucking there, Ilya's eyes, his body. Won't they leave Shane alone? Can't Shane just let this drug flood through his system without Rozanov being a part of it? Shane gasps again, his hand working faster, his grip tighter, and suddenly something is seizing his whole body and squeezing it in its grip, and Ilya is watching all of it with that burning stare, and he knows that Shane is close, and he knows that Shane is desperate and his lips are parting and his hand is moving faster—

Shane comes, his cum splattering across the floor. He makes some strange half-gasp, half whine, and Ilya reaches out a hand to the shower wall and his hand moves faster. "Hollander,” he groans when he comes soon after, splattering over the wall.

"Gross," Shane murmurs, his breath heaving, and Ilya huffs out a laugh. Shane's head is dizzy like the drug is abating; the shower room is quiet, the air heavy, the only sound their panting breaths. Shane doesn't look at Ilya. He just wraps a towel around himself and walks out of the steaming room into the cold, empty expanse of the changing room.

He can already feel a familiar panic stirring deep within his chest; it's an anxiety that he knows will rise to the surface at any moment, the kind that surges upwards and upwards if Shane pays it any attention. He takes a long, stuttering breath, imagining himself physically pushing the panic back down inside himself.

“That can’t happen again,“ Shane says as he changes, eyes trained downwards. His naked back is exposed to the rest of the room. He imagines the rest of the team sitting in their cubicles, watching. He imagines them whispering to each other about Shane Hollander, about what he likes to do, about the golden boy who isn't really a golden boy. He's a fag, they would say, and laugh like hyenas. And coach would laugh too. Maybe Rozanov would laugh, too.

Shane pulls his top over his head, tugging it down over his exposed abdomen. “That was a one-off," he says, glancing back at Ilya. His voice doesn't sound like his own. "I don’t do that kind of thing.”

Ilya turns to face him, rubbing his hair with the towel that he should be using to cover himself up, leaving his dick swinging about. “I could tell, since you came so quickly,” he smirks. “You’re bad liar, Hollander.”

Shane forces his face into a blank expression as he turns away to continue changing. When he swings his bag over his shoulder, he sees Ilya's expression begin to slip, his gaze confused. Don't you see the rest of the hockey team, watching? Shane wants to ask. Don't you know that they would laugh at you, if they knew?

Instead, he strides down the corridor and out into the freezing campus air with his wet hair dripping in ice-cold rivulets down the back of his neck.

The next day, they play against Penn State. Shane develops a strange cough the evening before, making his voice hoarse as he spends the evening watching tape of their games. He replays the footage over and over again, scribbling down notes and chewing on the end of the pen in a corner of the library under the sterile white lights. He only returns to the dorm when it reaches ten o'clock, and cocoons himself in his sheets quietly, the occasional cough convulsing his body. Ilya is motionless next to him.

The next morning, there's a pack of cough medication on Shane's desk, Ilya's bed deserted. Shane takes it begrudgingly, leaving a few dollars on Ilya's desk in payment. Ilya's a good teammate, he supposes. When game-time comes, Shane's hands are tapping at his sides, the team bustling around him as they get ready. Shane is playing on the right wing, because Coach had said that he plays like Gretzky when he's next to Ilya. Which—fuck off. It's Shane that makes Ilya better. Ilya's shots are shit when Shane isn't around.

Shane and Ilya snap the puck back and forth across the ice, fast-paced and ruthless, as Ilya lands hit after hit against Penn’s players, knocking them into the boards with an audible thump. Shane, meanwhile, glides through the defensemen, puck on his stick as he weaves his way towards the goal.

The puck hits the back of the net once, twice, three times, Shane and Ilya seeming to find each other on the ice based off instinct alone. Each time one looks up, the other is there, waiting for the pass. It's been like that since the start of the first semester: every time Ilya scores a goal, Shane's assist is there on the sheet.

As the third period begins, BU are already 3-1 up. The puck drops on centre-ice, Ilya scrabbling for the puck and snapping it towards Shane, who sprints up the ice, slipping through the defensemen as he comes around the back of the net.

The goaltender's gloves are held wide, his stance firm as Shane loops around the goal. His thoughts run over his options—pass wide, pass short, try and skill them. Michigan. The decision is made before Shane can process it.

He pulls the puck up onto his stick, scooping it onto the blade and lifting his stick into the air. He slots the puck into the top-left corner of the net.

There’s a beat of silence before the screaming of the crowd begins.

He’s just scored a fucking Michigan.

The shouts seem muffled in Shane’s ears as he turns to face Ilya, skating towards him with wide-eyed exhilaration on his face. Their bodies slam into each other, knocking Shane’s breath out of him as Ilya’s arms wrap around to cushion him.

Ilya’s lips brush Shane’s ear. “That was hot as fuck,” he murmurs. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold of the arena runs down Shane’s spine as he pulls away.

“Let’s fucking go boys!” Ilya shouts as they march back into the changing room. The team is sweat-drenched and panting, but there are grins across all their faces.

“Party at mine tonight!” JJ declares, standing up on a bench with his arms spread. “Gotta celebrate that beauty of a Michigan by cap over here.” He leans over to ruffle Shane’s hair, who ducks his head as he grins at the floor.

The team crowd around, chanting and slapping his back in congratulations. "Nice one, cap," he hears. "Fuck yes, Hollsy." "Nasty as fuck," "What a beauty." The words crowd around Shane, cushioning his mind, making him grin and laugh and shout things back. He sees his michigan in his mind over and over again: the silence as he slotted it into the goal, the cheer of the crowd, the congratulations of his teammates. Shane feels as if that feeling in the showers has returned: the feeling of a drug that floods through his system, that makes him gasp with pleasure and makes the world drift into a beautiful stillness. Shane looks up, a grin on his face.

Ilya’s eyes are on his from the other side of the room. He’s not celebrating. He's just watching Shane; and his gaze is burning. He's looking at Shane like he did in the showers. Like he's looking at a beautiful woman and not his captain.

The shouts of his teammates dull in Shane’s ears. He wonders if Ilya, too, has been seized in the grip of this drug, if this is some desperate hallucination between the two of them where nothing is real at all. Maybe Ilya agrees—this is about bodies, about the feeling of release. It's not real. Shane wants to laugh, raucous and uncontrolled, and wrap his hands around Ilya's waist.

Someone claps Shane’s back, jolting him forwards. He ignores it. Instead, he looks at Ilya, and Ilya looks back.

The team head straight to JJ’s house after the game. It’s some ridiculous apartment that his parents had bought him when he came to BU, with two stories and several bedrooms.

When they enter Shane heads for the safety of the kitchen with Hayden, away from the press of bodies and the pounding music. Ilya is standing by himself next to the beer, scouring the table as if he’s looking for something. Probably vodka, Shane thinks, because that’s Ilya’s favourite drink. An influence of his teenage years in Russia before he moved over, according to Shane's research. A few blonde curls are falling across his forehead, casting shadows from the dim overhead lighting, and his lips are pursed. When he realises there's no vodka on the table, he pouts, turning away with a frown. Shane wants to laugh at how young he looks, like a child that hasn't got what he wanted.

A body pushes past him from behind, a splash of beer wetting Shane's top. "Sorry," the girl says, smiling at him. Shane can't tell if it's apologetic or friendly or something else, but when he looks up, he realises that Hayden has wandered off somewhere and he's alone in the kitchen doorway. He heads towards the drinks table, towards Ilya, like he's approaching a girl on a night out with the team.

"No vodka?" Shane says. He feels almost drunk, even though he's not had a single drink. Ilya looks at Shane for a moment, and Shane expects to see a smirk on his face. Instead, Ilya keeps his expression calm, open like he's discussing something with his captain.

"No. JJ has bad taste in drinks."

"You don't like beer?"

"I like beer," Ilya says, and leans his head down towards Shane's ear, his breath ghosting over the delicate skin. Shane stands, frozen. “Second room on the right. Reward,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane slams the door shut behind him when he enters the room, locking the door with a click before he turns to face Ilya.

“You're being chased?” Ilya asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up,” Shane says. He hesitates for a moment, looking at Ilya's shirt instead of at his face. And then he pushes Ilya’s chest until his back is pressed against the wall, the contours of his chest underneath Shane's hand. “I just—" he starts.

"Just what?"

"You know what I mean."

“You mean your reward? For Michigan?“ Ilya's voice is breathless, his hands reaching out to slide onto Shane's shoulders like he can't help it.

"Yeah," Shane says. He grips Ilya's arms more firmly. They're distinct under his touch, so undeniably those of a sportsman, of a hockey player. Shane wants to run his hands over them, to feel the strength contained there. "Reward."

“Tell me what you want,” Ilya murmurs. It's like Shane is woman, he thinks, like he's some chick Ilya's brought home and he's being gentle with her. He's being the sort of guy that would kiss her slowly. He's not acting like Shane is just a body.

So Shane drops to his knees.

There’s a sharp intake of breath from above him. Shane nuzzles his face into the front of Ilya’s jeans, feeling the rough texture of them on his skin, the warmth of Ilya's body through the jeans. Ilya's already hardening—or maybe he already was hard, from the thought of doing this with Shane. Maybe he visualised it, after the game, and was chubbing up in his jeans at the thought.

Shane tugs the zip down. It gets caught, and then it's down, and Ilya's boxers are there. Shane glances upwards.

"Okay?" Ilya asks, and slides a hand into Shane's hair.

And that's enough that Shane is breathless, tugging Ilya's boxers down, wetting his lips, getting close. Taking it into his mouth, suckling on the tip. Going deeper.

"Da," Ilya murmurs, and Shane lifts his hands to the base of Ilya's cock, holding it, twisting his wrists, feeling the weight of it in his hands and the way that Ilya gasps when he does it right. He imagines it inside of someone, pushing them open, stretching them. The way that they might gasp at how deep it is. The way that Ilya might say "da," in the same way that he said it to Shane.

He shuts his eyes, sucking harder, working up a rhythm. He wants Ilya to gasp, to wonder how he's so good at this. He wants Ilya to see the porn he’d watched this summer in the secrecy of his room, the way that he’d studied the lips of each woman as they sucked the cocks of the men. The time that he'd watched two men—just in case—just to learn—

Shane moans around Ilya, looking up through his eyelashes to see Ilya’s head tipped back in pleasure.

“God, Hollander. So fucking good, fucking hot—“

Ilya cuts off with a moan as Shane slurps around Ilya’s cock; he returns to sliding back up and down, running his tongue over the head. He shuts his eyes, sinking into the repetitive motion like it's a hockey drill. Predictable, fun, drawing out praise. Shane lets each murmured word of Ilya's sink into him and make his limbs all shivery.

At some point Ilya pulls Shane off his dick, lifting him up to press Shane against the wall. Shane’s eyes are half-lidded in pleasure as he gazes at Ilya. He pulls Shane’s cock out of his jeans, pushing their cocks together, jerking them off, panting into his mouth.

Ilya's cock is achingly hard against his, still coated in Shane's own spit and rubbing against his with almost too much friction. Ilya's breath is hot where it's ghosting over Shane's lips, and his body is heavy against Shane's, pushing him into the wall and taking hold, and Shane—Shane needs—he doesn't know. He just wants to find out what Ilya's cock feels like inside of someone.

"Fuck," Shane gasps, his body convulsing.

"Wait," Ilya murmurs, so Shane does. Ilya reaches out to grab a tissue from the nightstand, his other hand working their cocks together. He brings it to their cocks, he thrusts forwards, moves his hand faster, his breath ghosts over Shane's lips, and then, suddenly, Shane is coming. He falls, boneless, back against the wall as Ilya comes with a swallowed-back moan.

“You okay?” Ilya asks, his chest still heaving.

“Yeah,” Shane replies. “You?”

Ilya nods as they pull their pants back up.

The music filters through the door: some loud, high-pitched song that makes Shane want to hold his ears shut. He can hear shouts and dancing downstairs, someone arguing on the stairs.

"You feel less tense?" Ilya asks.

"I'm not tense."

Ilya doesn't say anything. He just reclines against the bed and watches Shane with an ironic expression on his face.

“I should go back to the party." Shane turns away from Ilya, towards the pulse of the music. "That was—fun,” he says.

Ilya is silent. And then: "there's no vodka."

"I know," Shane says, reaching for the door. "You'll have to find something else, I guess."

He’s out of the door before Ilya has the chance to reply.

“What’s up with your hair?” Hayden asks when Shane walks back into the kitchen. He’s holding a beer and talking to some guys Shane doesn’t recognise.

“Oh—uh, nothing,” Shane blurts as he smooths his hair back down as much as he can.

Shit—his lips are probably swollen too.

Shane makes a beeline for the beer just for something to do, opening a can with clumsy hands. He takes a sip as he glances down at the table. There’s still no vodka.

Shane’s pretty sure he doesn’t even like beer. And he shouldn’t be drinking something with this much gluten. And it’s probably got a bunch of additives and sugar in.

He places the can back down on the table, pressing his lips together, his mouth still tingling with the memory of what he just did. He rakes a hand through his hair: he needs to push this out of his mind, needs to forget it.

But maybe—maybe Ilya will let him do it again. They could work something out, keep it secret, keep it…

Shane walks into JJ’s living room, looking around for anyone he knows. There, on the couch, amongst moving bodies and spinning lights, is Ilya. His mouth is brushing against some random girl’s ear, moving with the words that he's whispering to her. Exactly like Rozanov did to Shane in the hockey game.

Ilya’s eyes flick up. They lock onto Shane’s. Something flashes across Ilya’s eyes—something quick, too quick for Shane to recognise before it's replaced by an unnerving blankness. Shane wants to laugh. There was never any shared hallucination. It was always about fucking, for Rozanov. And Shane wasn't easy enough, so he's found a girl. He's returned to something easy. Something that won't make their teammates laugh like hyenas.

He watches Rozanov lean down to kiss the girl.

Shane turns, pushing through the bodies with the thumping music pressing against his skull. Hallucinations aren't real, for God's sake.

The only thing that's real is hockey. Hockey's rules don't bend for anyone.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Content warning: This chapter contains a homophobic slur. It’s used against an opposing team and it’s not said by Shane or Ilya.

Shane shoves his hands into his pockets as he marches back to campus, the frigid winter air sharp on his teeth. He braces his head against the wind, the music growing faint behind him and the snow crunching under his feet. With every blink, Shane sees the image of Ilya's lips moving down towards that girl’s, the way that he had thrown himself at the first girl he could see. And Shane had been left alone in the middle of the room with the taste of Ilya still on his lips.

“Hollander!” A shout comes from behind him.

Shane turns as a hand lands on his shoulder, jerking his shoulder away as he glares at Ilya. “What?” He snaps.

“Why are you being pissy? You looked like I fucking punched you, Hollander.” Ilya says.

“I’m not being pissy,” Shane frowns. “I couldn’t give a shit if you have a girlfriend, Rozanov. It’s not that. It’s…something else.” He turns away, continues trudging down the street.

“Svetlana’s not my girlfriend, Hollander. She’s my friend. And hook-up, sometimes.”

“Whatever,” Shane huffs, marching forwards, Ilya breaking into a half-jog as he tries to keep up.

“What the fuck else are you annoyed about then?” Ilya asks.

“Nothing. I’m not jealous,” Shane spits out, a slight crack in his voice. “That wouldn’t even make any sense. Just—that was my first blowjob, so.” He shrugs his shoulders, ducking his head and turning away as something painful rises up in his throat.

There’s a beat of silence before Ilya begins: “Shit, I—”

“It’s not a big deal, Rozanov. Forget I told you.” Why did he even—?

“Hollander—“

“I swear to God, just—“

“Shane,” Ilya says as he grabs Shane’s wrist. “I—uh, wasn’t trying to upset you.” He lets go of Shane’s wrist quickly, taking a step backwards.

Shane stares at Ilya, both of them stood still in the middle of the sidewalk, illuminated by the street lights.

“It’s fine,” Shane says, his voice growing softer. “It doesn’t matter. Still hate you, though.”

“Hate you too,” Ilya grins.

The pair turn to continue walking down the sidewalk, through the cold winter air. Shane pulls his jacket closer around himself, tucking his nose into the fabric.

Ilya clears his throat, before asking: “Did you have anything to drink?”

“I had a bit of beer in the kitchen, after we—uh.”

“Yeah? You like beer?”

“Not really. But it was nice to try it again. I haven’t had it in a while. I prefer ginger ale normally, though.”

Ilya hums in response, clouding the air in front of his mouth.

“You wanna go back to the party?” Shane asks.

“Nah, it was lame anyway. No vodka.” Ilya says. “I like the weather out here, too. Reminds me of Moscow.”

As they meander down the street, talking in gentle tones, snowflakes begin to fall, settling gently on the sidewalk around them. Shane turns to look at the footprints that he and Ilya are leaving behind them under the streetlights.

After that, the RA returns Ilya’s speaker, and he plays music in their room when they get ready in the mornings in exchange for waking up early. They walk side-by-side to meals, training and physio each day, bickering about whose turn it is to vacuum. Ilya teases the way that Shane folds his clothes and plans his routine, and Shane calls him an asshole and pretends he still means it like that.

A 12-pack of ginger ale appears in their shared mini-fridge, squeezed alongside the Russian vodka Ilya keeps there. Ilya doesn't acknowledge how the ginger ales got there. Shane blushes each time he drinks one.

Sometimes Ilya catches Shane looking at him for a beat too long. Sometimes Shane catches Ilya doing the same to him, at meals or in their room when it's late at night.

“Is that downward dog?” Ilya asks one evening, as Shane contorts himself into various positions on the floor.

“It’s locust pose,” Shane grunts as he holds his back in a curve as he lays on his stomach, hands stretched out in front of him. "It's yoga. You should've heard of it. It's great for athletes, for core strength and flexibility and stuff."

Ilya hums in response. “I know yoga. Show me downward dog,”

“You’re interrupting,” Shane huffs. But he bends into downward dog anyway, avoiding looking up at Ilya.

“How about…pyramid pose,” Ilya says, glancing down at his phone as he reads off a yoga website. Shane stands, pushing his legs out wide and leaning down to place his hands on the floor.

“You’re flexible, huh?” Ilya says. “Real flexible. Must be useful, hmm, Hollander?” Shane can hear the teasing arrogance in Ilya’s voice, as blood begins to rush into his cheeks. And it’s not because his head is upside down.

“Shut the fuck up.” Shane's voice is strained, the weight of Ilya’s gaze upon him. He exhales slowly, trying to focus on the stretch in his legs.

“You can stretch legs real wide, huh?” Ilya says, voice slow and teasing from above Shane. “Any activities you’re training for?”

“Just hockey,” Shane retorts. He can’t help but let the corner of his mouth pull up into a slight smile.

“Not the type of guy to…spread his legs, then?”

Shane straightens up. His cheeks redden, his eyes flick to Ilya. He turns to face him, the room silent but for the sound of his unsteady breath. "None of your business." Shane leans back down into the pose, looks at the scratchy carpet beneath him instead of thinking about how Ilya's looking at him openly, now. Like he wants something. Maybe Ilya was asking because—because maybe they could—

“I’m not…interested. In that," he starts. "But—if I was, I’d probably be the one to…you know”

“To what?” Ilya’s eyes are fixed on Shane, and he's leaning forwards towards him, one foot planted on the floor and his phone discarded on the bed.

“You know,” Shane mumbles, a flush crawling up the back of his neck and his eyes directed firmly away from Ilya.

“Say it.” Ilya’s voice is clear and commanding; almost without thinking, Shane stands up properly, his eyes running over Ilya. He's close enough to see the sweep of his eyelashes, the mole on his left cheek. He takes a step forwards, then another, and he’s almost between Ilya’s legs, and his eyes are meeting Ilya's.

The room is suddenly stifling, a sticky evening heat surrounding Shane; one that makes him dizzy with a need for something, and he shouldn’t. God, he shouldn’t.

But he can’t help it, when Ilya’s eyes drag over Shane like that, unashamed as he lingers on the muscle of Shane's legs, the curve of his body in his too-small top.

“To bottom,” Shane blurts out. Ilya's eyes snap back up to his face.

“Yeah?” he breathes, his eyes never leaving Shane’s.

They’re stuck like that, eyes locked as a blazing heat creeps up Shane’s spine.

He needs—god, he needs to move closer, needs more of that look in Ilya’s eyes. But he's frozen, trying to work out what the thing to do is, what someone who knows what they're doing would do—

"Come here," Ilya murmurs, and—his phone buzzes where it’s left abandoned on the bed. Shane’s eyes snap to the screen. The screen is black for a moment, then it lights up blue with a text there on the screen. From ‘Svetlana’.

The tension that was heavy in the air snaps.

Shane turns around as his heart thuds in his chest. He’s not doing this. He knows what type of guy Rozanov is, knows what he’s done to Shane in the past and what he’ll do again.

Shane just needs to keep resisting, keep fighting.

But as he retreats to his bed and cocoons himself under the covers, facing the wall, Shane’s not sure how much longer he can last.

The next day, after morning skate, Shane slides into his seat at the front of his biology class ten minutes early, lining up his notebook and laptop parallel on the table in front of him.

He opens his laptop to do some studying before class starts, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He’s not finished his notes from last lecture, and he’s behind on prepping for the quiz next week. He needs to make more time in his routine to study—but he can't sacrifice any time from his training…

Shane’s thoughts trail off as class begins, the low droning of the professor dulling into the background as a wave of sleepiness washes over him. He can’t help but yawn as he listens to the professor talk, his hands laying on the keyboard of his laptop instead of taking notes. Instead, he finds his thoughts meandering over which font looks best, about the line spacing of his notes.

The door to the lecture theatre swings open and a girl rushes in.

Not just any girl—that girl from last night. Svetlana.

Shane’s eyes narrow as she throws an apologetic smile to the lecturer before taking a seat in the free spot near Shane. His eyes can’t help but flick over to her, examining the full pout of her lips, the elegant line of her legs as she crosses them in front of her. The glow of her skin and the delicate curve of her neck.

Shane looks down at the callouses on his hands where they're resting on his laptop. He sees his cropped hair in the reflection, the way that his jaw is perpetually held tight.

He looks back up at Svetlana. She’s beautiful, in that feminine, elegant way that the guys on the hockey team salivate over.

Shane's eyes flick back up to the lecturer. He needs to focus—needs an A in this class. Needs an A in all his classes, even though he won’t even be in college next year after the draft. Needs the sign of completion that he can slot into place.

Shane releases a sigh as he looks back down at his laptop, typing slowly as he listens to the drone of biological jargon. His eyes flick back to Svetlana, to her perfectly styled hair, then back to his laptop. He needs to focus, hasn’t made enough notes. But the laptop screen is blurring in front of him, the lecturer’s words distant as Shane’s head lolls forwards. He can shut his eyes, just for a bit, just until…

“Hey,” the voice is muffled above him. “Hey, Shane. Shane Hollander?”

Shane lifts his head up from where it’s almost touching his chest, vision clearing as he sees a girl standing next to him.

“Hi!” She says. Shane has seen her around a few times—she’s a couple of years older than him, and most of the hockey team is obsessed with her. Obsessed with trying to fuck her, that is.

“Oh—um, hey,” he says, swiping a hand over his eyes as he looks around at the empty lecture theatre. He sucks in a breath. More work added to the ever-growing pile of things to do. The lecturer probably saw him sleeping front and centre of his class, too.

“Sorry—I saw you sleeping and thought I should wake you up. You’re Shane Hollander, right? Captain of the hockey team?” There’s a smile on her face, her eyes crinkling in the corners as she looks at him. She’s perfect—the whole hockey team thinks that. She has long, curved lashes and smooth skin and perfectly straight, white teeth.

“Yeah—uh, thank you so much. I’m just tired—didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Shane says with an awkward laugh as he stands up, collecting his things into his arms.

“Don’t worry, I understand. This class is so dull,” she laughs. “Feel free to say no—but I was gonna go and grab a coffee after class if you wanted to join?”

“Oh—yeah, that would be nice. Thank you,” Shane smiles as he stands. He needs more friends, and this is probably a good idea to—

Oh. Right. She was probably asking him on a date.

Right—Shane can do that. She’s beautiful, of course he can do that. He likes—he likes pretty girls.

He does.

He squares his shoulders as he follows her out of the lecture theatre.

“My name’s Rose, by the way,” she smiles as they stand in the queue at the coffee shop.

“Mine’s Hollande—Shane, I mean.” How do people normally act on a date? What should he do with his hands? He should pay for her coffee, right?

Ilya would probably be flirting by now, would have her wrapped round his finger with one of those charming smiles he does. Or maybe he’d do one of those smirks, lifting a corner of his mouth up because he knows he’s that fucking hot.

“I know,” Rose laughs. “I’ve seen the hockey team play before. I saw your Michigan recently—that was so fucking good.”

“Oh—thanks,” Shane smiles, his lips closed as he nods awkwardly. “I’d been practicing them for a while. Hopefully I can get another one soon.”

The conversation flows as they stand in the queue, discussing hockey and biology and Rose’s favourite coffee shops. When it turns out that Rose is also Canadian, they talk about their childhoods in Canada, and Shane finds his hands unclasping the hem of his hoodie as he listens to Rose talk about her brother’s time playing hockey.

She’s nice—funny and friendly and laid-back in a way that’s the polar opposite of Ilya.

Ilya, who’s probably with Svetlana right now. Shane’s brow furrows as Rose speaks.

“You okay?” Rose asks.

“Oh—yeah. Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was just wondering if you wanna do this again some time?” Rose asks as Shane opens the door for her on the way out.

“Yeah, sure,” Shane replies. “Sorry—um, I would love to.” He corrects himself when Rose smiles wryly at him.

“Great—let me give you my number, so we can work something out.”

She puts her number into Shane’s blackberry, waving goodbye when they part.

Shane releases a breath as he walks away. He did everything he should, everything by the rulebook. He just has to keep following the rules and everything will be fine.

Shane climbs up the stairs and strides along the corridor to his room. Ilya’s probably back from his sociology class already, probably doing a tape review to prepare for the game tomorrow. Shane needs to watch some footage too, he thinks, as he approaches the door. Needs to read the scouting reports and check other players’ stats. Can’t let Rozanov get an advantage.

As Shane’s hand reaches for the door, he hears a faint stream of Russian from inside. Has he got someone in there with him?

It could be Svetlana. Shane swallows, his throat tight.

He can’t help but take a step closer. But it’s not Svetlana—there’s a man’s voice, muffled through a phone on speaker. The voice is low and rough and biting, phrases of Russian spat out before Ilya’s voice replies with something that sounds like: “Da, polkovnik.”

It’s not anything like Shane’s heard from Ilya before. His voice is soft and reserved, a layer of something raw in the hoarseness of his voice.

Shane looks down at his biology notes. He’s got a lot to catch up on. He turns around and heads for the library.

When Shane returns to the dorm exactly one hour later, Ilya’s lying back on his bed, holding a photo close to his face as if he’s studying it intently. When he sees Shane enter, he quickly places the photo back on his nightstand, leaning it against the pack of cigarettes he keeps there: it’s the worn, faded photo of a young woman.

Shane has glanced at it before, at the woman in the photo. She’s dressed in a thick coat, smiling at the camera as she sits on a bench, the wind dancing through her hair. Ilya’s always kept it propped up facing his bed. Shane knows he gazes at the photo when he thinks Shane isn’t looking.

He settles down on the floor for some stretching. He doesn’t know much about Ilya’s family—only that he moved away from his family to the US a couple of years ago.

Shane glances back at Ilya, who’s rolled over on his bed to face the wall. He stays like that, motionless for a few seconds, before he sits up, his eyes vacant as he takes his cigarettes off the nightstand and heads for the door.

The photo falls face down on the nightstand as the door slams shut behind Ilya.

That evening, Shane ticks off his stretching and studying and footage review from his to-do list, before stepping into the shower.

He’s got one last task to do.

He wraps a hand around his cock, squeezing his eyes shut. He visualises what it’d be like to kiss Rose, to…fuck her.

She’d probably be so sweet, so encouraging, beautiful like Shane knows that she is. This is what he’s supposed to do, right? It’s what all college guys do.

But his dick remains limp in his hand.

It’s probably because it feels wrong to picture a woman like that, to objectify her like that. But—he needs to. It’s a part of the rules.

Shane squares his shoulders once more. He could…go down on her, maybe. When he dated that girl for a month back in high-school, he only got so far as eating her out. He hadn’t minded it, had sometimes enjoyed the methodical challenge of finding what she liked, of losing himself in trying to elicit a word of praise from her. He’d be good at eating her out, right?

Shane begins to stroke his cock as he imagines kneeling for Rose, her sitting on the end of a bed, grasping his head in between her legs. The words of praise she might direct at Shane.

“So fucking good for me, fucking hot,” she could say.

Shane’s cock begins to harden as he tips his head forwards, letting the water run down his back in lukewarm rivulets.

But—she wouldn’t say that, she’s too fucking nice. That’s what Ilya had said to him, in that deep murmur as he moaned Shane’s name. That’s what Ilya would say again, if he…

Rose would be wet and smooth under his tongue, which would be fine. Maybe it’d be nice, even. He could do some research, figure out how to make it best for her so he could please her.

Shane groans, releasing his cock as he rests his head against the cold material of the shower wall. His stomach churns, nausea rising up in his throat as he looks down at the floor.

He brings his hand back down before he can take a single breath, encases his cock. His grip is too tight, his jaw quivering.

Do it, he thinks. Do it. Please, do it.

Shane's cock is limp, his throat aching with frustration. He wants to slam his fist into the wall.

Why won't the rules just work?

Instead, he releases a drawn-out sigh. He wraps the towel tight around his hips with jolting hands. He steps out into the steaming air of the shower room and looks at himself in the mirror. This is—cruel, Shane knows it is. He can’t even get off to the thought of her. He bites his lip as he pulls the bathroom door open, steps out into the cold air of the corridor.

He should end this. And he will.

After the game tomorrow.

They lose the game in overtime.

It’s the worst way to lose, Shane thinks. The chance of a win snatched out from under your nose, the outcome decided in a heartbeat.

The team storms into the changing room afterwards, sticks clattering onto the floor as they slump into their cubicles. The play had a certain bitter fury tonight, in the hits and fights and chirps, each man desperate to prove themselves to the scouts before the beanpot. Before the draft.

The media shares a similar frenzy.

’What’s it like to play on a line with your rival for the number one draft spot?’

‘Tell us about the pressure of being the youngest captain in BU history,’

‘What can you say to all the aspiring Asian hockey players out there?’

They all ask the same questions, pushing the same microphones into Shane’s face, as the cameras flash and click around him and the questions flood over him.

And Shane gives the same withdrawn answers that he always does.

Afterwards, Coach makes his speech, telling them to move on from the game and focus on training, to work harder and train more and eat better.

And of course Ilya gets the third star of the game. Right in front of all the scouts.

“Fucking Maine, fucking hate them,” Thompson says when the team crowd into the showers. Shane pushes himself under the stream of water, shutting his eyes and letting it run over his hair as he tries to block out the noises of his teammates.

“Fucking shit defensemen, too,” another voice adds, a chorus of insults exploding from the crowd of bodies around Shane.

“Shit hockey team,” Thompson spits as he kicks a foot into the wall. “Bunch of fucking fags, the lot of ‘em,”

Shane flinches where he’s standing under the water.

A cold sensation begins to crawl up Shane’s spine. The water feels freezing, suddenly; naked bodies surround him, their chatter deafening. He needs—needs to fucking leave, to escape, and Shane turns, pushes through the crowd of bodies, his legs wobbly beneath him as he grasps a towel to wrap around himself, pushes into the stifling air of the changing room.

He sinks back into his cubicle, back against the hard wood of the wall. He snatches up his blackberry with trembling hands, fumbling out his passcode.

‘Fucking fags,’ Thompson had said. Shane hears again and again the way that he spat the words out, like he could hardly stand to have them in his mouth.

It makes him think of all those times in juniors when an opposing player would grab Shane by his top, would yank him close and glare into his eyes, would spit an insult into his face. You fucking fag, they'd say, and try to punch him in face. Cocksucker. Shane can list them off like a line of his biology textbook.

Luckily, Shane was good enough that he never had to fight, that his teammates would throw themselves at the opposition and hurl insults of their own.

Keep being this good, Shane's mom would tell him, and you won't have to worry about fighting.

The insults had never stopped, though. No matter how good Shane tried to be.

He pulls his lip into his mouth, pushes his teeth in until it hurts. He rubs his hands up his thighs, feeling the abrasion against the skin. Nothing helps.

Who was Shane kidding? He can’t just break the rules like that. Girls aren’t something he can choose, goddammit. They’re necessary, they’re something every player has to fuck or date or at least do something with.

And if it’s a choice between losing hockey—between losing perfection, and dating Rose. He knows which option he’s going to choose.

He takes a breath, and types into the chat with Rose: ’Do you want to go to the movies with me tomorrow?’

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading! Next chapter should be on Thursday.

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

Posting early because I can never seem to stick to a schedule.

On a serious note I was so angry to see the US men’s hockey team laughing at the women’s team (and of course Kash Patel being there). A sad reminder to us NHL fans about the state of the hockey community.

I hope things can change, but in the meantime I hope this chapter is a positive contrast to that video.

“And then I was like, ‘you think that making me watch your highlights is a good idea of a date?’” Rose laughs. “Like—some hockey players are just so unaware. I’m glad I’ve found one that’s not like that, though,” she smiles across at Shane as they walk towards the movie theatre.

“Yeah,” Shane grins back, his smile wavering as he tries to formulate a response. “Some hockey dudes are super weird. I knew a guy who wore the same jock since he was ten.”

“Yuck, wow. I guess it’s all that repression making them so weird, eh?” Rose says.

“What d’you mean?” Shane’s cheeks flush as he glances at Rose, then down to the sidewalk.

“Like the whole ‘masculinity’ thing, you know. Hockey’s just one big dick-measuring contest, right? On top of the amazing skill and all that, of course.”

“Oh—um,” Shane’s mind flicks back to the shower after their loss yesterday. “Yeah, it kinda is. But that’s just how it is, right? Not much I can do to change it.” Shane bites his lip as he speaks.

Rose’s eyes flash towards Shane for a moment, a glimpse of—pity, maybe, in her eyes?

But soon their laughter is returning as they move onto safer topics, finding their seats in the movie theatre. She nudges him at funny moments in the movie, laughing too loudly. Shane glances over at her and grins in return, whispering an apology when their elbows clash together.

For those brief moments, he feels like it might not be so bad. Like he has it under control.

He has it all under control, he tells himself, when Rose kisses him outside the movie theatre, and he opens up his mouth and closes his eyes and tries to kiss back.

He has it all under control when Rose suggests going to a club that night, and dances with him again under the flashing lights, the music blaring, bodies pressing around them.

He has it all under control when he smiles at Miles, his lips tightly shut, who smirks at Shane as he saunters off through the crowd, his body moving in sync with the music.

When Miles returns, there’s a man with him.

Shane watches, eyes wide as the bass thrums through his body, a harsh thumping that pulsates the floor of the club as he sees Miles lean forwards, towards the man—

And they’re kissing, right in front of Shane.

Shane stops, watches, his body frozen. The sound of the music dulls in his ears.

It’s…easy, the way that they kiss: they’re holding each other, their lips moving rhythmically, their bodies swaying. They kiss like it’s just that. A kiss. There are no gasps of shock, no wide eyes, no hands pushing each other away or insults being hurled.

There’s a jolt of anger, of fury, almost, within Shane as he watches. It rises up within him with such strength it makes him dizzy, the flashing lights and the blasting music mixing with the feeling until that burning anger is all her can think about. People like Miles—they don’t have to worry about the media, or their teammates, or the pressure of the world on their backs.

They’re just enjoying it.

Why can't Shane enjoy it, too?

The lights flash blue, bodies spinning as Rose looks up at him, smiles as she reaches up, her lips pressing up to Shane’s. It’s gentle and soft and everything that it should be. He opens his mouth, lips trying to work out a rhythm as Rose’s hands caress his neck. It’s good. It’s fine.

It’s not what a kiss with Ilya would be like.

Shane pulls back, the club hot and humid around him.

The lights are red and purple and pink, flickering across the faces that are moving to the music. Shane's eyes flick around the club as he forces his hands back onto the curve of Rose’s waist—

There, in the middle of the faces, is Ilya. His face is blank as he stares at Shane across the room. It’s indecipherable, his expression, a perfect mask. A frozen figure amongst the moving bodies.

For a split second, it’s just Shane and Ilya, just the two of them across the dance floor, the music dulled and the bodies around them invisible.

And then there are faces moving between them, bodies moving across the dance floor, and Shane looks down at Rose again.

When he looks back up, Ilya’s gone.

“Bathroom,” Shane shouts into Rose’s ear, turning away to push through the wave of bodies.

The smell of sweat and the brush of limbs surround him as he nears the other end of the room. He glances round for a sign of Ilya, pushing forwards when he catches a glimpse of the curly blond hair. Shane fights through the bodies, through the crowd.

There, following Ilya up the stairs to leave the club as she pulls her coat over her shoulders, is Svetlana, her hand on Ilya’s arm.

Shane’s mouth goes dry.

Of course. Shane should have known, should have seen. Ilya’s leaving to go and hook up with Svetlana. Of course he didn’t care that Shane was with Rose—why would he care? They’re competing for the draft pick.

Why would he care?

And Shane doesn’t care either. He doesn’t.

Shane clenches his fists at his sides, his breathing fast as he pushes his way through the crowd back to Rose. He shouldn’t even be out this late, should be doing his stretching before bed and showering and going to sleep early. The draft is soon, World Juniors sooner. He can’t afford a moment of imperfection.

When Shane finally escapes the humidity of the club to the cool night outside, his breath is clouding the air in short, quick bursts. He can hardly remember what he said to Rose and Miles, muttering something about illness as he brushed past them.

Shane rushes down the slush-covered street, back to the safety of his bed. The wind whips across his face, and his stomach is aching and rumbling. But he’s eaten his assigned number of calories for the day, so he’ll have to wait until tomorrow. He bows his head against the wind. The walk feels endless.

When Shane eventually pushes open the door of the dorm room, his cheeks are flushed from the frigid winter air and he’s shivering under his jacket.

Ilya’s lying flat on his back on his bed, a cigarette in his hand that’s releasing a trail of smoke into the air. He brings it to his lips, offering no indication that he’s seen Shane enter. What happened to hooking up with Svetlana?

Shane stares for a moment, stood in the doorway. Ilya is as majestic as he always is, laid out like that on his bed, his shirt riding up to reveal his abs. Shane is stopped short at the sight, before he remembers Svetlana's hand on his arm, before he remembers what Thompson had said in the changing room and that Shane has a girl now. “Are you smoking indoors?” Shane asks, his voice incredulous as he glares at Ilya.

“Yep.” Ilya exhales, his lips curved as he blows out a trail of smoke.

“Why the fuck are you smoking indoors? You’re gonna set the fire alarm off.” Shane marches over to open the window as he huffs in anger, glaring at the ash tray on Ilya’s nightstand, already littered with cigarette butts. “How many have you smoked, Rozanov? The whole room’s gonna stink of smoke, dumbass.”

“Thought you were gonna go home with that girl, Hollander?” Ilya stands leisurely as he reaches to put out the cigarette, turning to face Shane. His face is expressionless.

“I like Rose. I’m allowed to go home with her,” Shane can hardly understand what he’s saying, the words escaping his lips as his voice wobbles.

“Sure,” Ilya says. His voice is blank, devoid of emotion as he reaches for the packet of cigarettes on his nightstand.

Shane’s hand snaps out, snatching the packet from Ilya’s hand. “You’ll set the fire alarm off.”

“Give them back, Hollander.” Ilya’s voice is deep and rough as he takes a step closer.

There’s a beat of silence before Shane’s hands are snapping out, shoving at Ilya’s chest, and Ilya’s pulling Shane down with him until they’re falling back onto Ilya’s bed. And then they’re pushing and pulling at each other, the covers rucking up underneath them and their hands grappling and breaths panting as Ilya wrestles for the cigarettes.

Why can't this just be easy, why can't things just slot into place the way they should. Why can't he just be with Rose right now and have that be enough?

Like it will tell him the answer, Shane shoves at the hard muscle of Rozanov's chest, but he's being pushed back down onto the mattress, and their haggard breaths are the only sound as Ilya traps Shane in with his hips, a leg on either side of him, his weight heavy and his scent wrapping around Shane. He smells like cigarettes, and god, Shane fucking hates it.

He hates it when Ilya's leg presses between them, when Shane feels the texture of his jeans through his own, when he feels Ilya's breath against his cheek and the movement of his hands across Shane's chest that makes his nipples hard; he hates the way that his heart is pounding as his eyes meet Ilya’s, and Ilya’s hand is reaching out for the cigarettes as Shane pushes up, trying to escape, and Ilya pushes down harder and—

A whimper escapes Shane’s lips.

Please, no.

He’s—fuck.

He’s hard.

Shane’s cheeks fill with blood as something catches in his throat, something painful and aching. His chest heaves, and that anger inside him is gone. It's replaced by something cold, something that creeps into his mind and refuses to let him look away.

He was supposed to go home with Rose.

Instead, he’s underneath a fucking man. Underneath his rival. And his dick is hard. The same dick he couldn’t even get up thinking about Rose.

Another whimper escapes Shane’s lips. But this time, his eyes are blurring, his throat is aching.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Ilya’s staring down at Shane, his mouth slightly open and his eyes searching Shane’s face.

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice is quieter—soft, almost—as he pulls back.

Shane's hand reaches out to push at Ilya's chest, to get away. But his arm is weak, the push hardly there.

"What's wrong?" Ilya asks, his eyes searching Shane's face.

He hates it, he hates Rozanov.

The words just feel empty, now.

“I think I’m gay,” he says. His voice is surprisingly steady.

Ilya’s eyes widen. “Shane,” he repeats, sitting back on his bed. “Come here.”

"It's fine," Shane says. And then he laughs: it’s an ugly, hoarse sound that doesn’t sound like it comes from his mouth. He wonders if Ilya would see through him if he told him it was a joke. But Ilya would recognise the lie in a second: since the day in the dining hall Ilya has seen too much of him.

Ilya's hand reaches out, touching Shane's arm. "Hollander," he says.

Shane’s being pulled forwards before he knows what he's doing, finding Ilya's arms, letting them encase him, hold him close in his embrace.

Shane doesn't cry. Instead, he thinks of his mom, of his rules.

Did he not have the right rules? Didn’t he do enough?

Why didn’t the rules work?

Ilya's arms are tight around him, his body warm, the angle awkward.

"It's shit," Shane murmurs into Ilya's shoulder. Ilya Rozanov, somehow, has seen every vulnerability of Shane’s more than anyone else. And yet he’s here, comforting him.

Why? Shane wants to ask. Instead he tucks himself further into the warmth of Ilya’s body.

"I know," Ilya whispers. There's a beat of silence. "But, um. You didn't—realise earlier?"

Shane pauses, lets Ilya's words sink in. "Shut up," he says with a huff of laughter, sitting next to Ilya on the bed. The laughter sounds hollow. He watches the expression on Ilya’s face: it’s light, like Shane’s just told a joke. He doesn’t look like Shane has just hit him over the head with the weight of his words: I think I’m gay.

Shane feels sort of light, too: the words are out there, now. They’ve floated away from Shane’s grip. His hand loosens by his side as if the words were really kept there.

Shane wants to laugh again. To smile at Ilya and say: why didn’t I realise earlier? Look how stupid I am, like there’s no reason why he didn’t say it earlier.

But there is a reason. It’s in the pucks stacked on Ilya’s desk, their teammates down the hall, the schedule pinned above Shane’s desk. Hockey is everywhere, and it doesn’t leave room for people like Shane. Only Shane Hollander, golden boy, is welcome.

So Shane doesn’t laugh, even though he wants to. “I’m hungry,” he says instead.

“Yeah?” Ilya reaches down under his bed, coming back up with a protein bar. “Super healthy,” he says, his face serious as he offers it to Shane.

Shane takes it gently, unwrapping it as he tries to avoid looking at the nutrition label. He knows that Ilya notices.

“Sorry,” he blurts out.

“It’s okay,” Ilya says, his eyes fixed on his hands clasped in his lap.

"You're gonna sabotage your career, smoking like that," Shane says after a moment.

Ilya just shrugs.

Shane takes a breath as he looks at the protein bar. It’s caramel flavour—probably full of additives and sugar, even if Ilya says it’s healthy. His breath quivers. There’s a gentle touch on Shane’s back, and Ilya's eyes are on him, careful and curious.

“You’re good at that. The—uh, thing on my back.” Shane murmurs. He takes a breath, biting into the protein bar. There’s a moment of silence before Ilya replies.

“My mom—she used to do that. For me. Um—when I couldn’t sleep.” Ilya’s voice is quiet as his gaze flicks to the photo on his nightstand. Immediately, he glances away, his eyes returning to his lap.

Shane's eyes follow Ilya's to the photo. “Is that her? In the photo?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” Ilya replies. There’s a beat of silence. Ilya’s hand leaves Shane’s back and he’s shuffling off the bed, retreating across the room. “We should sleep,” he says, refusing to look at Shane.

“Oh—yeah, sorry,” Shane mutters as he hops off the bed, his cheeks reddening. He takes the cigarettes from where they’re abandoned on the blankets and places them back on the nightstand.

They get ready for bed in silence, their eyes trained on the floor.

Shane wraps himself in his duvet when he gets into bed, reaching to turn off the light. As the room flicks into darkness, he blurts: “I’m gonna stop the thing with Rose tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Ilya murmurs.

Shane hears Ilya turn over in bed, sees the outline of his body, framed by the moonlight seeping through the curtains. He watches Ilya's chest rise and fall, slow and almost imperceptible. He watches Ilya until his eyes slide shut and sleep envelops him, the smell of cigarettes still lingering in the air.

"You feel any different, now?" Ilya asks on the way to breakfast the next morning.

"What?"

"Your self-discovery. You feel more...free, now?"

An incredulous laugh bubbles out of Shane, suddenly, as he looks across at the daffodils beginning to push through the grass next to the path instead of at Rozanov. "I'm not gonna be any different, now that I know. I'm still Shane Hollander."

Ilya hums; a bird chirps in a nearby tree. "But now Shane Hollander can fuck whoever he wants." He looks across at Shane with a grin, and Shane laughs back. It’s incredulous, though, almost biting. Ilya is wrong. He can't fuck whoever he wants. Of course not: he's Shane Hollander, captain of the hockey team, top draft prospect, his mother's pride. Golden boy. But it's nice, for a moment, to pretend that he can fuck who he wants. Like the only barrier to freedom is self-acceptance.

Even Ilya can't have that freedom, no matter how hard he tries, Shane thinks. Hockey is hockey; that's the way things are.

Their breakfast is a quiet affair, Shane’s leg wiggling under the table as they eat their food in silence. The dining hall moves around them; Shane feels as if he’s suspended in time, like it’s only a matter of time until something hits him sideways and knocks him to the floor.

Eventually, Shane pushes his chair out behind him with an ugly scraping sound. Time is moving now, too fast, the meeting with Rose is rushing up to him.

"Good luck," Rozanov murmurs Shane glances back in surprise; Ilya nods at him, shovelling a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth.

Will it be okay? Shane wants to ask. Tell me it’ll be okay.

Instead, he walks through the maze of tables with his breath held tight in his chest.

“You feeling okay after last night?” Rose asks when they meet in the park.

“Yeah—um, how about you?” Shane replies.

“I’m good,” Rose smiles. They meander along the path and under the trees, their conversation trailing off as Shane’s hands tremble at his sides.

“I was gonna—”

“I need to—”

"You can go," Shane blurts.

“Oh, no, you go ahead,” Rose says, an awkward smile on her face.

“Okay. I, um. I don't think I can... do this, anymore. I'm sorry.”

“Okay.” Rose's gaze is steady as she looks at Shane, curiosity in her eyes. “It’s okay. I kind of had... an idea. I probably knew, deep down somewhere, that it wasn’t going to happen between us.” She clears her throat, her eyes glassy.

"I'm sorry."

"You know it's okay if you, um, don't want to be like the rest of the hockey team?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry, I'm going about this wrong. In the club, when you saw Miles kissing that guy. You looked... really upset. More than upset."

"No, I—" Shane laughs. It sounds fake, cutting. "I didn't." His body is frozen; movement feels impossible. Maybe he should laugh again, laugh at her and say you don’t know me as well as you think you do.

Shane opens his mouth to say something, to make her scared—

"I'm not saying anything, don't worry. I just mean to say that I understand you. And it's okay."

Shane looks around them: the park is empty, the trees swaying in the breeze. "Is it—" he takes a breath. It's like a hand is squeezing his chest, tighter and tighter until he can hardly get the word out. "—obvious?"

"No, no, not at all," Rose says, reaching out to wrap a hand around Shane's arm. "I promise, okay? I'm just perceptive. I wouldn't have noticed at any other time, though."

Shane exhales slowly. He needs to be more careful. This is way, way too close. If any of the hockey team got wind of it— "I'm not—you won't tell anyone, right?"

"Of course not. I promise. On my mom's life." Roses's eyes are steady as she looks at Shane. He examines her expression for a second before he nods.

“But we’ll still be friends, right? I really like you, Shane. I don’t wanna lose that.”

Shane's eyes return to her face, looking for any trace of a joke, anything that might show that she's lying. She wants to be Shane's friend?

Her eyes remain warm as she looks at Shane in expectation of an answer.

“I’d like that," he blurts out. "And—I’m sorry, again.”

"It's okay," Rose smiles. They continue meandering through the park, under the trees that are showing the first signs of flowers.

She wants to be my friend, Shane thinks as he releases a breath. That squeezing pressure on his chest has loosened.

When Shane gets back to his dorm, he puts on his glasses, opens up his laptop and slides under the covers of his bed.

And searches up dildos.

He clicks on the first website, a weird, buzzing anticipation in his chest. There are rows of dildos, each one a bright colour or funny shape or with some weird extra function. His eyes widen as he scrolls, reading the descriptions as the fluttering feeling grows. If people knew that Shane Hollander was looking at dildos—he doesn't even know what would happen. No one would believe it, probably. But here, in the safety of his bed, with his browser on incognito mode, no one will know. He exhales, his pulse fast under his skin, and looks back down at his laptop.

A lot of the dildos aren’t as big as Rozanov. Theoretically, with Rozanov, he’d have to work his way up, stretch himself, to be able to take it. It makes Shane’s breath catch in his throat, his dick twitching in his sweatpants as he thinks of the way it might feel inside of him, the way that his rim would have to stretch and his body make way for it.

There’s one—a pink one, not too big, that makes Shane stop. It’s smaller than Rozanov is, though not by much. It’d probably be good practice for—

Shane adds it to his cart, something jolting through his stomach at the action.

Maybe—maybe this could be his little secret. His space where he doesn't have to be Shane Hollander, golden boy. He can just do some... self exploration, or whatever the right word is.

The door swings open.

Shane slams down his laptop, blood rushing to his cheeks as his wide eyes take in Ilya, standing in the doorway.

“What?” Ilya asks. There’s a half-eaten sandwich in his hand, his backpack is slung over his shoulder. His eyes take in Shane where he’s laying under his covers. A smirk beings to grow on his face. He saunters through the room, theatrically placing the sandwich down on his nightstand as he turns slowly to face Shane.

“Shane Hollander.” His voice is teasing, a lilting cadence to his words. “Are you watching porn?”

“No!” Shane’s voice is high, his cheeks turning impossibly redder. “No. It’s—um. My highlights.”

“Shane Hollander.” Ilya’s smirk grows where he’s standing over Shane. “You’re jerking off to your own highlights?”

“No—I wouldn’t do that,” Shane huffs, his cheeks reddening. There’s a beat of silence. “What, do you jerk off to your own highlights?”

“Of course,” Ilya grins. “Everyone has.”

“No—they…” Shane trails off as he thinks of Ilya…doing that. He’d probably jerk off to that goal against Northeastern, where he’d done a wrist-shot through the goalie’s legs. Or maybe that penalty shot he did, where—

“Well, don’t let me stop you. You can carry on, Hollander.” Ilya settles back onto his bed, leaning on his hands as he watches Shane.

“I’m not going to—” Shane starts to speak as he glances at Ilya. His eyes have that same, burning intensity that makes Shane squirm."What the fuck? You think it's appropriate to—" Shane clears his throat— “jerk off to my highlights?”

“If you can make it that long.” Ilya smirks as his eyes flick down to the blanket over Shane, a slight tent where—

“Fuck off,” Shane says, his voice unsteady as he puts his hands over his dick. He looks back at Ilya. By now, he recognises that look on his face: it's the confident one, the one that's slightly too cocky, where his eyes don't seem to match the arrogance of the smirk. It's the expression that Ilya makes when he wants to seem confident, when there's another motivation to his actions. Shane looks down at Ilya's legs, the way that they're garishly thrown apart, the way that his eyes don't leave Shane.

Ilya wants this, too.

Shane exhales a long breath: he wants to throw himself back on his bed and grin at the ceiling. Rozanov wants this, too. Of course he does. Shane reaches out for his laptop, turning it carefully so it’s facing away from Rozanov as he opens it back up. With his hands trembling he searches up his own highlights, takes a breath. Presses play.

“Turn the laptop,” Ilya directs.

Shane follows his instructions as he keeps his eyes fixed on the screen. His heart blunders in his chest and his breathing picks up. Ilya’s just going to watch—just enjoy the sight of Shane doing that. The thought gives Shane a funny, fluttering sensation in his stomach, his dick pressing against the seam of his boxers as he squirms.

He lays back as the highlights begin. How should he—?

“You need me to tell you how to do it, Hollander?” Ilya’s voice is teasing, smirking as he looks at Shane.

“No—I can…” Shane starts, his voice trailing off. He stares at the screen for a second. “Yeah, okay,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

Ilya clears his throat. He shuffles backwards on his bed so that he’s sitting upright, his body facing Shane. His cheeks are tinged pink. “Look at the screen. Keep your eyes on it, Hollander. You see your hot fucking stickhandling?”

Shane nods, his eyes wide.

“Keep looking at it. Put your hand on your chest, like that. Slide it downwards. Slowly, Hollander. You feel that muscle under there?”

“Yeah,” Shane whispers, his breathing faltering.

“Show it to me.”

God—Shane shouldn’t be doing this. His dick shouldn’t be hardening, his heart shouldn’t be racing as he pushes the covers down around him. Shane’s hand lingers on the hem of his t-shirt for a moment.

He shouldn’t do this—but he needs it so fucking bad.

He pulls the t-shirt upwards, his head tipping back against the pillow to expose his neck as Ilya’s eyes drag over him.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya says, his voice deep and his accent pronounced. He’s leaning forwards on his bed, one foot on the ground as if he’s about to stand. “Look at yourself again.”

On the laptop screen, Shane is slamming someone up against the boards as he fights for the puck.

‘You say you’re not a hitter, huh? That was a good fucking hit, Hollander. Everyone said so. Said you were fucking strong, fucking fast and big and strong.”

A whimper escapes Shane’s mouth; he can’t help but push a hand down, squeezing himself over his sweatpants.

“You like that, Hollander?” Ilya’s standing now as he watches Shane, his eyes never leaving him as he moves across the room. His dick is hard in his own sweatpants, and Shane’s eyes trace over the bulge as his lip catches between his teeth. “Show me.”

Shane’s eyes meet Ilya’s as he pushes down his sweatpants and boxers. His dick is hard and weeping, the tip red where it’s brushing against his stomach. The sight twists something inside of him, a pang of desire so strong it almost hurts.

“Fuck,” Ilya says, his voice slow and his pupils dilated as his eyes trace back up Shane’s body towards his face. He lifts a hand, palming himself through his own sweatpants as his eyes lock onto Shane’s.

“Touch it.”

Shane’s hand at last grips his cock, his head tipping back in pleasure. His heart thrums in his chest with a low, buzzing anticipation as he keeps his eyes on Ilya. He needs to know what Ilya wants him to do—needs to listen.

Ilya’s eyes flick to the laptop screen, Shane’s eyes following his.

On the screen, Shane is weaving through the defensemen, the puck on his stick as he dribbles towards the goal. Shane watches as he approaches, the goalie squaring up in preparation for a shot. Instead, Shane flicks the puck backwards, towards Ilya who’s sprinting down the ice behind him. And Ilya shoots it straight into the goal, the cheers of the crowd filtering through the speakers on his laptop.

“Hot fucking pass, Hollander.” Ilya says, almost breathless as he speaks. “Fucking smart move, giving me the goal. You’re a good fucking winger, Hollander.”

“Fucking asshole,” Shane says, his voice whiney and punched-out as he squeezes his cock, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m supposed to be a fucking centre.”

“But you’re a good fucking winger for me, Hollander. My good fucking winger.” Ilya’s palming himself now through his sweatpants.

“No.” Shane continues to stroke himself.

“Tell me you’re my winger, Hollander. You’re my good fucking winger.”

“No.”

“I won’t let you come.” And that—that does something to Shane, something he doesn't want to think about. Something that makes his dick harder and makes him want to whine and squirm and beg Ilya to let him come.

So, really, it's out of his control when he says: “No—fuck, fine." He pauses. Takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I—I’m a winger.”

“Hollander.”

“I’m—” Shane's thumb brushes over the tip of his cock, sends a shiver of pleasure through him. He gasps out: “Your good fucking winger.” The words come out all at once, a flurry that matches the way that Shane's hand is speeding up on his cock, and Ilya’s moving forwards, his hands grasping Shane’s thighs as he crawls onto the bed, pushing the laptop out of the way.

“Let me suck you off.” Ilya's voice is hoarse, almost desperate as he looks at Shane.

“Fuck—fuck, yes”

Ilya’s moving downwards, his mouth is enveloping Shane's cock before he knows what's happening. His tongue laves circles on the tip as he slides down, downwards until he’s got almost all of Shane’s cock in his mouth. His hands reach up, caressing over Shane’s thighs before they grasp his hips. His hands are firm, commanding as they push Shane down into the mattress.

Ilya pulls away for a second. “Keep eyes on screen, Hollander.” His voice is deep and raw as he speaks.

Shane moans as Ilya’s mouth returns to Shane’s cock, working up and down as Shane tries not to squirm underneath him. His eyes return to the screen, to a video of another one of his goals.

One of Ilya’s hands slides over Shane’s stomach, spread wide over the muscles as the other remains firm on his hip. It traces upwards, brushing over his nipple as Shane’s back arches and he lets out a soft moan.

But he keeps his eyes fixed on the screen, like Ilya told him, watching play after play, watching as Ilya passes to him or he threads between defensemen or lands another hit. Eves his fucking Michigan is on there.

It's—good. He’s fucking good, a pang of arousal shooting through his body at the thought. He’s a fucking good winger, like Ilya said. Shane’s back arches again, his moans unabashed as Ilya continues sucking.

“Gonna—gonna come,” Shane gasps, and Ilya just continues, a hand between his own legs as he jerks himself off in sync with his mouth on Shane’s cock. His other hand is moving downwards, brushing over Shane’s balls, further back, tracing—tracing over Shane’s hole.

And just like that Shane comes with a drawn-out moan, his back arching up and his lower lip pulled between his teeth.

“Sorry,” he pants as he recovers his breath, looking down at Ilya where he’s sitting up between Shane’s legs. “Let me—”

“It’s fine, Hollander,” Ilya says. Shane looks down at the bed to see cum on his sheets, right where—right where Ilya had been.

“Fuck,” Shane says as he looks at the mess. Ilya lies flat on Shane’s bed, panting as he stares at the ceiling. "You came?"

Ilya doesn't answer, just looks up at Shane with a smirk on his face. Shane can't help but let out a huff of laughter in response.

After a few seconds Ilya stands up off the bed, turning to rummage underneath his own bed. He pulls out two protein bars, then walks to the mini-fridge and takes out a ginger ale. He grabs the bottle of vodka, pouring some into the shot glass next to the fridge.

Shane watches in silence, looking at the expanse of Ilya's back where it curves down to meet his ass. Because he's allowed to look. Because it's just bodies, in this room. Ilya will keep it secret: nothing matters, here. Ilya hands Shane the cool ginger ale and a protein bar and slumps down next to him with a sigh, his back against the headboard and his leg pressing against Shane’s hip as he takes the shot of vodka.

“My good fucking winger,” Ilya says to himself, a smile on his face.

“Shut up,” Shane says, his mouth twitching as he tries to avoid smiling, their shoulders brushing and his cum still across his chest.

Chapter End Notes

Shane finally did it!!

 

Coming chapters will have more of Ilya’s backstory. Next one should be at the weekend sometime. :)

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Shane’s nose almost touches the screen of his laptop as he reads through the latest ESPN draft updates, his lower lip caught between his teeth. The library is empty around at this time in the evening, the humming of the bright white lights the only noise penetrating the silence. His biology notes are spread across the table, abandoned as he scans through an article.

Unprecedented; two equal contenders; first overall pick. Hollander leading in assists, Rozanov in goals. Hollander is skill-based, Rozanov strength-based. Polar-opposite players, potential number one picks. Shane scans the words, his eyes flicking across the screen.

'Ilya Rozanov's recent rise into stardom has surprised the entire hockey community and most of all, Shane Hollander. Can he still expect the number one pick that he was promised since juniors? Currently, scouts are undecided. World Juniors and the NCAA championships will be vital,’ The article reads. ‘However one thing remains certain: Shane Hollander will be vying for the centre-spot on their BU team so that he can show us what he’s truly made of.’

Shane’s blackberry next to him pings with a text from his mother, making him jump. His knee bangs into the underside of the desk, the sound too loud in the heavy quiet of the library. Another sponsorship deal. He exhales slowly, a familiar pressure on his chest. That same pressure that sometimes feels so splintering that Shane can hardly breathe.

He looks back down at his biology notes. Maybe he should go to the gym again today, should get some extra training in. Should eat more protein, should stretch more.

Shane pushes his head down so that his forehead is resting on the cool surface of the table.

How does Ilya get through this?

Just a few more months and the draft will be done, his future decided. His legacy set in stone.

The thought lingers with him as he strolls through campus the next day on the way to their biology lecture, when Rose starts asking him about the pressure on the team.

“That kind of thing, it's... off-limits, you know? The whole feelings thing. They actually tried to get everyone to see a psychologist at one point,” he replies. He can still remember the way that the team had looked round at each other with smirks on their faces to see if anyone would take up the offer. How coach had sighed in relief when he realised there were no problems on the team.

“Yeah? You didn’t go? Not that I think there’s anything wrong with you. But—you know.”

“I—um, never really thought I needed that, I guess. And I’d never hear the end of it from the team, if I saw the psychologist.” Shane says. “It was also more of a token thing, anyway. Coach didn’t actually want us to go—it was more for like, good publicity, or whatever.”

“That’s really shitty of him,” Rose frowns. “Nothing wrong with seeing a psychologist.”

“I guess,” Shane shrugs.

The thought lingers with him as he goes through the rest of his day—what it’d be like to talk to a psychologist. What they might say to him.

He’s not sure he wants to find out. Instead, he thinks of the article, of the draft, of all the things that are more important; of how Ilya Rozanov, somehow, tragically, is the closest thing he'll ever get to someone understanding what it's like. He huffs out a laugh as he strides back to the dorm. Then he thinks: Rozanov is the only one to know me sexually, too. He doesn't laugh any more after that.

Shane and Ilya head to practice together that afternoon, walking side-by-side through campus. Ilya points out the sun in the sky, melting the mid-December snow, whilst Shane rolls his eyes. How does he care so little about the draft?

It’s their final practice before World Juniors, their skates slashing across the ice as they rush through drills to the sound of Coach's shouts.

The team crowds into the shower again after practice, Shane staring firmly at his feet as he lathers up the soap. He’s not going to look at Ilya's body in the shower—not with the blowjob from two nights ago on his mind. Not when he'd already woken up hard this morning, having to rush to the shower with his hands covering his crotch whilst Ilya snored next to him, the covers thrown to the side to reveal the contoured expanse of his chest.

Shane changes quickly after his shower, Ilya following him out of the changing room as they toss their bags over their shoulders.

“After you, captain,” Ilya smirks as he opens the door for Shane on the way out. Shane just rolls his eyes as he steps out into the winter air.

They walk in silence, until Ilya says when they walk past the mail room: “I need to collect a parcel. Vodka delivery.”

“Okay?” Shane says. “Go and collect it, then?”

“Come on, Hollander,” Ilya smirks, tugging on Shane’s arm. He leans down to whisper into Shane’s ear. “Remember yesterday.”

“Shut up—okay, I’ll come,” Shane hisses, pulling Ilya forwards as he glances around for anyone who might have heard, even though campus is deserted. He wants to push at Ilya's chest and ask him if he realises that they're hockey players, with the draft coming up and too many secrets to count.

"Have you ever heard of a day off drinking?" he asks instead, and Ilya grins across at him, his eyes glinting.

"Of course. I just don't agree."

“There’s a package here for you, Hollander,” Ilya says as he lifts the cardboard box of vodka into his arms, a slight clink of bottles coming from inside.

“Oh—no, it’s fine.” Shane’s cheeks redden as he turns around to leave. He pushes at the door, but it's a pull. Fuck. “I’ll collect it later.”

“Don’t be stupid, Hollander. Take it, here,” Ilya pushes the package into Shane’s arms and strides out of the room.

When they get back to their dorm, Ilya unpacks his vodka into their mini-fridge, a gleeful smile on his face as he looks at the bottles. Shane, meanwhile, throws his delivery into the back of his closet, swinging the doors shut with a hollow bang. His cheeks are still red, so he inspects the closet doors for any dust so that he doesn’t have to turn around.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya says from behind him. Shane jumps, turning slightly as he ducks his head. “What are you hiding in that package?”

“Nothing,” Shane blurts.

“Alcohol?”

“Of course not.”

“Drugs?”

“What? Obviously not.”

“Okay, Mr Captain, keep your secrets.” Ilya saunters over to his bed, reclining against the headboard with a glass of his new vodka.

Shane walks to his own bed, reaching for his laptop with his cheeks blazing as he sits on his bed and begins to work on his biology assignments.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Ilya put down his vodka on his nightstand, a smile growing on his face.

Shit.

“Is it a sex toy?” Ilya smirks across at Shane, his head tilted.

Shit.

“No—what? No, obviously not.” Shane’s heart races as he looks back down at his laptop.

“It’s a sex toy? Shane Hollander, I never would’ve thought. A sex toy?”

Shit.

“Shut up,” Shane says, his eyes still focussed on his laptop. “It’s not.”

There’s a beat of silence as Ilya continues to grin at Shane.

“Okay, fine. It’s a dildo. I’m—trying something, alright?” Shane doesn’t look up from his biology notes as he speaks, his hand trembling where it’s resting on the touchpad. Another secret failed to be kept a secret, another thing where Ilya fucking Rozanov sees too much.

Ilya gets up off his bed, walking across the room until he’s standing over Shane. “Can I watch?”

“What?”

“Can I watch?”

“You want—fuck, Rozanov. Fuck.” Something throbs deep in Shane’s stomach. Ilya wants to—sit there and enjoy the sight and get hard just from watching? "You actually want that? You want me to—?”

"Yes, to—" Ilya makes a gesture at his crotch, and then grins at Shane. And fine, Shane grins back. Fucking hell.

Shane shifts against his seat. He looks towards his closet: he hasn't even seen the dildo yet. He wants to. He wants to feel it inside of him. He wants Ilya's eyes on it. He wants Ilya to see how well he can take it, how hot Shane Hollander, captain of the hockey team, can be. He wants the draft to disappear from his head and for sex to remain; for once for his brain to be empty.

"Okay," Shane says. "You can watch." He looks towards the door, some faint chatter drifting towards them from down the corridor. No one out there will know that the projected top two picks for the 2008 draft like to do this. It's their secret, shared between the two of them. Shane swallows. He's hard.

“Now?” Ilya asks, taking a step closer.

“No—I have biology to do,” Shane says.

“Can I at least see it?”

“No.” Shane’s cheeks redden as he shifts his legs, trying to hide the bulge that's growing there. Ilya sighs remorsefully, slumping back onto his bed to slouch against the headboard as he keeps his eyes on Shane. “How long’s it going to take?” He asks, picking back up his vodka.

“Not long.”

“Do you have lube?”

“Yes.”

“Anal lube?”

“Yes.”

“Scented lube?”

“No,” Shane frowns across at Ilya as he looks up from his laptop. Does he need—?

Ilya smirks at Shane. “Fuck off,” Shane says as he looks back down at his laptop with flushed cheeks. His eyes can’t help but flick back to Ilya, tracing over his body, over the hand holding the vodka, and down—

Ilya’s—Ilya’s kind of hard in his sweatpants too. Fuck. Shane's breathing goes funny as he looks back at his laptop.

After a few more minutes of shared glances, Shane stands up suddenly, putting his laptop on his desk and marching to the light switch to put the room in half darkness. When Shane turns back around, Ilya’s sitting bolt upright on his bed, his eyes trained on Shane. He looks—hungry, starving,, his eyes possessing that burning intensity that makes Shane shiver.

Shane gingerly opens the closet, reaching into the depths of it to take out the package. He holds it where Ilya can’t see in between his closet doors, hands trembling. His hands rip off the plastic, until the coolness of the silicone is under his skin. Until he can feel the size of it, the weight of it, in his hands. It's not like a real cock, really, but—it'll stretch him open. Rozanov will see. Rozanov might get hard. He might picture his own dick doing that to Shane and—

"Hollander," Ilya says, and Shane turns suddenly. Ilya's eyes snap down to the dildo. His Adam's apple moves with the force of his swallow. "It's big," he says, and looks back up at Shane. He's unblinking. His dick twitches in his sweatpants, the outline of it so clear that Shane could go over there and put his hand over it and it would feel like he was really touching it.

"You can take it?" Ilya asks.

"Yes, I—" Shane swallows. Ilya watches. "I've practiced, before. With fingers. I can take it."

Ilya's mouth drops open. He pulls it shut again; he moves forwards until he's half off his bed. His hands slide up and down his thighs like he doesn't know what do with them. "Come on," he says. His voice is raw.

Shane pull off his sweatpants, tugging them down around his legs, then sitting back on his bed against the wall. The silence of the room is only punctuated by their heavy breathing.

"I—" Shane starts, looking down at the dildo. It's big, a lurid pink colour, and it's—it's weird, right? Rozanov's right—it's bigger than ones he's seen before. If people knew that Shane Hollander—

"I won't tell, obviously," Ilya murmurs from across the room. Shane's eyes flick up to his. "Promise." Shane inhales, looks back down at the dildo. He nods at last, exhaling slowly before he takes out the lube. This is just for him, just for him and Ilya, and no one has to know. Shane and Ilya.

Ilya’s eyes don’t stray as Shane raises his legs up, parting them slowly before reaching down to take his boxers off. He watches Ilya’s gaze trail over him, lingering between his legs. Shane can't breathe.

“Fuck,” Ilya murmurs, palming his dick over his sweatpants. He reaches over to discard his vodka on the nightstand, leaning forward from his position on the bed. Shane brushes his hand down over his chest, pulling his shirt up so that it rests beneath his pecs, as if he’s presenting himself to Ilya. For Ilya’s enjoyment. Because Ilya—Ilya likes Shane’s muscle, has said so, said Shane’s muscles are fucking hot.

Shane tips his head back as his hand continues down, stroking up his cock once before it drifts down, brushing over his hole and sending a shiver of heat up his spine. He feels the familiar tightness of it under his fingers, from the summer when he'd let himself touch; when the heat of the summer had let his mind drift away and his fingers reach down and touch.

He’s—he’s fucking doing this.

He reaches for the lube, coating his fingers. It's cold. His body is too hot. Ilya is watching.

No one has to know.

Shane pushes one finger in, gently, slowly. He releases a groan at the sensation, and then looks up: Ilya’s lips are parted, his cock rigid in his sweatpants.

Shane pushes in a second finger. Ilya looks like he’s studying Shane, his eyes tracking every expression on Shane’s face as he works his way up to a third, fucking his fingers in and out until he's stretched wide. So wide that he could take Ilya, maybe. According to the research he did. So wide that he feels split open, so wide that he has to stretch his legs wider, until it's obscene.

"Hollander," Ilya murmurs. His chest is rising and falling with deep, sharp breaths. His eyes are wide, his pupils blown. His hand reaches down and he squeezes himself over his sweatpants.

Fuck. He likes this. He sees Shane Hollander doing this and he likes it.

Shane's trembling hand reaches out. He picks up the dildo. His breath is ragged, a pang of desire in his stomach so potent that it aches. At last Ilya’s eyes flick down to Shane’s hole, to the dildo that he’s bringing towards it.

He's the sole object of Ilya’s desire. Not for his hockey, not for his ambition. But because Ilya thinks he’s fucking hot.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs when Shane begins to push the dildo in, his head tipping back as he moans. Ilya wants him. The thought sends a jolt of pleasure through him as the dildo slides deeper, and he pulls it back again, his rim stretched wide; he slides it deeper, his eyes on Ilya, until it’s flush against him.

“Fuck,” Shane whispers. It’s—it’s almost too much, the feeling, almost overwhelming as holds it inside himself. Ilya’s eyes are wide as they trace over Shane’s body, his own held still.

Ilya's tongue darts out, brushes over his lips. Shane begins to pull the dildo out of himself, to push it back in and let it graze over his prostate, and his hand is moving to push it deeper, Ilya's eyes on him, his breath rasping.

Come here, Shane wants to say, and his eyes wander upwards to Ilya, to the way that his lips are parted and there's a tent in his sweatpants. He wants—

“Can I—” Ilya blurts.

“Yes, fuck,” Shane gasps. Ilya stands. It feels like forever as he crosses the room, kneels gingerly on the bed, reaches a hand forward to touch the base of the dildo.

The gesture makes it move inside Shane. Just a bit. Just enough to make his cock jump, his breath hitch.

“Fuck,” Ilya whispers. His eyes trace over Shane’s hole, and Shane squirms underneath his gaze. His fingers brush over the base of the dildo.

“Please,” Shane says, his voice hoarse as he looks up at Ilya. “You can—use your hand.”

“Fuck, Hollander, fuck,” Ilya says. And he's reaching out an unsteady hand, grasping the dildo, pulling it out, pushing it back in slowly, torturously; Shane whimpers, squirms against the covers, pulls his legs further apart.

Their pants grow deeper. Ilya fucks the dildo in, out, in again. His breathing heavy, his cock pushing against his sweatpants. Shane squeezes his eyes shut as if that will temper the way that his limbs are shivering, his hips wanting to push up, the feeling that his blood is rushing through his body and making his cock ache, brushing over his stomach. He reaches a hand down to jerk himself off—and Ilya’s hand is wrapping around his wrist, holding tight. “Don’t touch. Let me, Hollander.” His stare is blazing as he looks at Shane.

And that—that does something to Shane. “Fuck, Rozanov.” Ilya's lip is caught between his teeth, that same look on his face that he gets when his skates are cutting across the ice towards the goal.

The calluses on Ilya's hand brush over Shane's cock as he begins to jerk him off. His thumb brushes over the head of Shane’s cock, over the slit, and then moves downwards, his hand running up and down in time with the thrusts of the dildo.

“Hmmh,” Shane moans as he reaches the edge; the dildo brushes along his prostate, waves of pleasure running through his body. His eyes close, he sinks into the sensation.

His orgasm rises up within himself suddenly, before he even has time to realise what's happening. His body is held taut for a second, tightening around the base of the dildo, Ilya's hand moving faster and faster. He can't help but push his hips up into Ilya's hand, the dildo working deeper inside of him—and then he's coming, spilling with a drawn-out moan across Ilya's hand.

Shane lays back, boneless, against the pillow. He whimpers as Ilya gently pulls the dildo out of him with a murmured apology.

A bone-deep exhaustion settles into Shane's limbs. He feels weightless, like he could just float off into the sky without Ilya's hands holding him safe against his bed. His eyes drift shut of their own accord. Because Ilya is here, and Ilya is taking care of him.

Shane doesn't know how long it's been when he opens his eyes again. But Ilya is unmoving between Shane’s legs, watching him. His gaze is soft in a way that Shane has never seen from Ilya before. He reaches out a hand as if to brush Shane's hair out his eyes. And then he stops, stills. Shane waits. Then Ilya pulls back, shifting off the bed, his dick pointing upwards obscenely in his sweatpants.

Shane sits up on the bed with flushed cheeks. He sucks Ilya off after that, pushing him down to sit on the bed and getting onto his knees on the scratchy carpet. He doesn't quite know what to with his hands, and he shifts them around from Ilya's cock to his own thighs and back up to Ilya's; each touch feels too intimate, too caring, and Ilya oddly is silent above him. At last, he pushes his hand into Shane's hair and strokes through it. But Shane can't help but like something has shifted, somehow. Something he can't understand; something that he shouldn't have let happen, maybe.

Their room is draped in a strange silence for the rest of the day, both of them shifting around awkwardly. Ilya does some strange inspection of his vodka, his hands fumbling on the bottle as he reads the label and brushes the dust from it. Shane, meanwhile, cleans each crevice of the window, examining it for dust with such precision that he knows that Ilya's secretly laughing at him.

Their suitcases lie open on the floor, Shane's already packed and Ilya's still empty. But by the morning, both are packed full, dropped into the taxi as they head for the airport. They don't exchange a word in the taxi, of course: Shane runs over the players on his team at World Juniors, over the opposition and their strengths and weaknesses. He gets momentarily caught up in a vision of beating Russia in the final before he forces his mind to return to stats and tactics and how he's going to improve.

The only words exchanged come when they separate at the airport, a muttered goodbye from them both as they head for their separate teams. Shane can't help but glance back at Ilya's departing form as he goes. Ilya doesn't look back at Shane, of course. It feels like Shane's first loss of the tournament.

In Czechia, Shane waits for his turn to be interviewed by the hoards of journalists. They're crammed into the room, shouting out questions, a blur of motion and flashes. Ilya sits still in front them; his body is held tight, his jaw clenched. Here, he's not the Ilya who winks at journalists and offers smirks to the camera. Here, he's frozen.

“Do you feel like you’ve been snubbed by not being given the captaincy for Team Russia?” A reporter asks, standing up at the back of the room and shouting too loudly. “You can answer in Russian.”

“I’m good.” Ilya says, his voice deep and his gaze harsh on the reporter. “No comment.”

The questions all follow that thread, probing for answers as Ilya continues to give blunt, sharp responses.

When it’s Shane’s turn, the media unleash a similar barrage.

“How have you found being the youngest hockey captain in BU history? And the first Asian captain?”

“Do you worry that playing as a winger rather than as a centre is going to hurt your draft pick?”

“Are there any worries that you were awarded captain of BU as an apology for not being the top-line centre?”

Shane leans down into the microphone to answer, a slight quiver in his voice as he looks up at the journalists swarming the room. When he eventually stands to leave, his legs are wobbly and he can hardly remember what he said.

"Thank you," he says. The cameras follow him as he leaves.

"Rozanov's not looking too hot right now," Canada's coach says to the changing room before the game against Russia. "But I want all of you to stick close to him, watch him, anyway. He's still a serious threat."

Shane nods; he grips his stick tighter, looking out across the room. He's here to win. They all are.

When Russia's anthem booms out across the ice, Ilya's eyes are fixed on the ice, his jaw still held tight. No C on his chest, no chirps.

When the puck drops, Shane pulls it back, snapping a pass to the winger as Canada charge up the ice. Ilya mutters something, just loud enough that Shane can hear the rawness of his voice over the noises of the crowd; and then Ilya is charging up the ice and slamming the player into the glass.

It’s only a matter of time until the puck is careening into the back of Russia’s net, the shouts of the fans drowning the stadium as Shane high-fives his teammates on the bench.

And then it happens again. And again, until the score is 3-0.

Shane passes across the ice to his winger, who turns to sprint up the ice, the crowd's shouts rising up around him—

The player is slammed into the boards head-first Ilya’s body crashes into him. He thumps against the glass; the crowd is silent.

The ref’s whistle screeches across the ice, Shane's skates cutting across the ice as he moves towards them.

“What the fuck!” Shane shoves Ilya’s chest with both hands. Ilya’s back hits the boards; his eyes are wide, angry, his mouth half-open. In a split second the other Canadian players are tackling him to the ground, aiming punches at his face as Ilya pushes back, as the Russian players get involved and the crowd shouts.

There's more than anger in Ilya's face, though: fear, maybe, in the wide open wildness of his eyes, as if something in him has snapped and his only instinct is to protect himself like an injured animal.

And then a Russian player grabs Shane's shoulders, and he's being pushed to the ice and is grappling for purchase, and—the player is being pulled off Shane, and he's catching his breath.

And the scouts are going to see that he's not a good fighter. Fuck.

The ref's whistle screeches, the other players contained by the refs. “Number 81, 5-minute major for checking from behind and a game misconduct.”

Ilya hardly reacts to the referee, pulling himself up and skating with his head bowed to the penalty box. As he passes the bench, the Russian coach leans over the wall and shouts something in Russian at Ilya, his eyes wide in fury and his finger pointing into Ilya’s face. Ilya’s head stays bowed.

“Any comments about Rozanov’s conflicts with his coach? Could this controversy open the door for the number one pick for you?”

“We’re happy that we made it into the final and are focussed on our hockey right now.” Shane replies into the microphone, his voice quivering as he repeats the words told to him before the interview.

“Rozanov was pictured smoking outside before the game. Any thoughts on the Russian players coming under fire for smoking? Along with Ilya’s conflicts with his coach, is there a potential attitude problem going on with Rozanov and any of the other Russian players?”

Shane clears his throat, silent for a second as he stares at the room full of reporters, their cameras held at the ready and their microphones pointed into Shane's face. He takes a breath. “Rozanov doesn’t have an attitude problem.”

Shane strides out of the room, ignoring the shouts behind him.

Later that night, Shane lifts his hand to tentatively knock on Ilya’s door, hoping the receptionist gave him the correct room number as he scuffs his feet against the floor, his hands in his pockets. He doesn't really know why he's here, had decided it in a split second. It feels like another win for Ilya, that Shane is giving in and coming to apologise. But that doesn't matter, now, Shane supposes. He's already beaten Russia.

There’s a shuffling inside the room, and the door is swinging open to reveal Rozanov, clad only in his boxers. There’s a shot glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

“No sex tonight, Hollander,” he says, his voice quiet and his face devoid of emotion. He begins to push the door shut.

“No—wait.” Shane pushes the door open so that he can slide through the gap and close the door behind him, leaning against it with his back. “I just—I wanted to apologise. For trying to fight you on the ice. I’m sure you didn’t mean to injure our player.”

Ilya stares at Shane in silence. He takes a drag from his cigarette, before reaching for the ash tray on the desk, pushing the cigarette into it until every spark has disappeared. He lifts his vodka to his lips, drinking the vodka before he puts it on the table with an audible thunk.

He looks at Shane. “I meant to do it.”

“Oh—um.” Shane scuffs his feet on the floor. “I know that, like, the media are on you about everything. So. I get why you were angry.”

“You trying to suck my dick, or what, Hollander?”

“No. I just…don’t want to fight with you.” Shane finds himself frowning, irritation growing within himself as he watches Ilya. He's not—he's not here for sex. He's not that desperate. And of course Rozanov thinks that, thinks that Shane is just some horny, desperate mess.

Ilya takes the bottle of vodka off the table and refills his glass, refusing to look at Shane. “So do you want me to suck your dick?”

“No—fucking hell, Rozanov. I’m not trying to start anything. I just wanted to apologise. You’re such a fucking asshole.” Shane turns, heading for the door, humiliation rising up inside of him. Ilya always manages to come out of the conversation on top, manages to show everyone that he's the better one, the more confident one. The one who deserves to go first overall.

Shane exhales shakily. Fuck Rozanov. It was a pointless risk, coming here, near the other Russian players. He doesn’t even know what possessed him to—

A hand clamps down onto Shane’s shoulder, pulling him round until his back thuds against the door. And Rozanov’s lips crash onto his.

It’s inelegant, the kiss, gasping and desperate, but Shane finds himself opening up under Ilya before his mind has caught up.

Another win for Rozanov.

"You're just—" Ilya starts, running his eyes over Shane's face, brushing his hand over Shane's cheek. "Just—fuck," he says, pressing his lips back onto Shane's.

Ilya’s mouth is rough on his, and his hands slide down and under Shane’s thighs to lift him up before Shane can understand what's happening. Ilya's arms are tight around him as he stumbles towards the bed, dropping Shane onto the mattress and following him downwards. He connects their lips again, pushing his tongue into Shane's mouth as if he's running out of time; he reaches down, his breath hurried and his hand trembling, pulling down both their boxers and pushing their cocks together.

Shane can't do anything but gasp in surprise as Ilya begins to rut his cock against Shane's. Ilya's breath is coming in pants, his eyes squeezed shut as if he can't bear to look at Shane.

"Fuck, fuck," Shane gasps, and Ilya grabs their cocks and pushes them together as pleasure begins to overtake Shane in a sudden, desperate rush. It feels off-balance, the kind of unnerving pleasure that hits you sideways and leaves you dizzy and aching.

Their hands find each other's bodies, and Shane feels as if a million hands are running over him, each touch a wave of pleasure that brushes over him and then escapes, an overwhelming chorus of touches that makes him arch his back against the bed and makes his mind a dizzy blur.

"Fuck," Ilya says, his voice shaky, and his hand returns to their cocks, jerking them off with his fist tight and his body shaking. They come like that, together, desperately rutting against one another. Cum splatters across Shane's chest and up to his nipples; Ilya collapses sideways onto the mattress. His eyes close, his chest heaving, and Shane can't help but let his gaze trace over him.

There's a sheen of sweat across Ilya's face, his curls laying damp across his forehead. The golden light of the bedside lamp is illuminating his face, and he looks—fucking good, Shane thinks. Not that he didn't know that before. But now, Shane thinks, Ilya looks like he has the kind of beauty that isn't even possible.

Shane's cheeks redden as he looks back down. Ilya's really fucking beautiful. That's fine. He's allowed to notice that.

Ilya sits up against the headboard and reaches for a cigarette. He lights it with a click of the lighter as Shane watches. Even the smoking doesn't make him look any less attractive.

Shane searches for something to say, something to distract himself.

“What did your coach say to you, today? When you were going to the penalty box?” he murmurs.

Ilya laughs wryly, taking a drag from the cigarette. “Calling me a pussy. The usual.”

“That’s—I’m sorry. That’s not how a coach should behave.” Shane says quietly. He glances down at the mattress. Looking at Ilya feels too dangerous, right now. Like Shane might start feeling bad for Rozanov, or something.

“It’s nothing, Hollander,” Ilya laughs. “They locked us in the changing room for two hours after we lost. You think being called a pussy is fucking bad?”

Shane frowns at his hands clasped in his lap. “Do you—um, enjoy playing for Russia?”

“I have no choice, Hollander.” Ilya’s voice cracks slightly as he speaks, his laugh cutting, fake, as he lifts the cigarette to his lips once more. His throat is held tight as his jaw trembles slightly.

There’s a beat of silence, then two.

Ilya’s voice is almost non-existent as he says: “You got your orgasm, Hollander.” He looks away. “You can go now.”

“Oh—um, right.” Shane’s voice wobbles as he stands up off the bed. “I—I promise I didn’t come here for sex,” he blurts. “I just wanted to apologise.” His voice trails off to a whisper as he finishes the sentence, pulling on his clothes. He rushes for the door.

Another win for Rozanov.

“Hollander—” Ilya starts.

But the door is already slamming shut.

Shane walks down the corridor towards the stairs, his eyes blurring with choked-back tears. He realises with a sniffle that he’d put on Ilya’s shirt in his rush to leave the hotel room. He lifts the shirt to wipe his tears, taking a breath as he begins to head down the stairs back to his room.

At least he's making Ilya's shirt dirty. It serves him right.

Ilya's always winning, in this thing that they have. Well fuck that.

Ilya wants casual sex.

Shane can do casual.

Chapter End Notes

Enter Shane Hollander slut era.

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

Shane returns to BU after Winter Break with a grin on his face and a gold medal around his neck. Captain Canada, they had called him, after he’d scored the winning overtime goal against Sweden. But even when the team had lifted Shane onto their shoulders amongst the raucous cheers of the crowd, Ilya’s words in the hotel room remained fixed in his mind.

They locked us in the changing room for two hours after we lost. You think being called a fucking pussy is bad?

Ilya's eyes had looked so empty as he spoke, something tight in his expression as if he was forcing his face into that blank mask. Now that his anger has subsided, Shane's mind runs back and forth in an agonising spiral over how he could've reacted better, whether he should've comforted Ilya instead of kissing him back.

The thought lingers with Shane as he spends his first day back on campus with Rose, wandering amongst the blossom trees and finding a corner of the library to study in. The thought cuts through the current of happiness that runs through him when he sees the medal hanging in his dorm, and makes him stare at it for a moment before tucking it away in a drawer.

Shane thinks about Ilya's arrival so much that it almost feels underwhelming, the first time he sees Ilya again at their first practice back that evening.

Shane strides into the changing room early as normal, his notebook in hand with a list of new stretches he wants to try. And then Ilya Rozanov is there: he's facing his cubicle, his shirt halfway off his back, the muscles held tight. Shane's sharp inhale punctures the silence of the room. At the noise, Ilya turns around; his empty eyes fix on Shane. He nods a greeting and turns back around, all whilst Shane stands stock still.

When the team begins filtering in, the changing room gradually fills with chatter and noise and the smell of old gear.

The door slams open, Coach Murphy striding into the centre of the room. "Welcome back, boys," he says. "First of all, we’ve gotta congratulate everyone who went to World Juniors, especially the Canadian team. But," he says, a grin on his face, "We've also gotta celebrate our captain Shane Hollander for scoring that beauty of a golden goal. Great job, Hollander,” he says, striding up to Shane and clapping him on the shoulder with an audible thump. He turns back to face the room. "Now for what I want from you lot today..."

Shane sits back in his cubicle, his shoulder throbbing and his gaze flicking to Ilya. He's bent forwards in his cubicle, his elbows resting on his knees and his jaw clenched tight. Shane swallows, forcing his eyes back to Coach and the whiteboard behind him.

When Coach leaves, Rozanov's face remains expressionless, his mouth pinched and his eyes vacant, whilst everyone else starts to get up to head onto the ice. Shane's eyes are caught by his teammate Thompson, sauntering up to Ilya with a grin on his face.

“Unlucky, Rozanov,” he says, and Ilya's eyes snap upwards. “Don't be so ashamed of Russia, eh. You've only lost a couple hundred times to Canada.” He laughs, reaching out a hand to slap Ilya's shoulder.

Ilya huffs out a breath, standing up and striding past Thompson. “Congratulations, Hollander,” he murmurs when he reaches Shane, grabbing his stick from the rack and heading down the corridor. Shane's gaze follows him as he goes, his eyes curious.

That night, they both change in silence before they get into bed. Shane takes out his book, one about the benefits of massage therapies, putting on his glasses as he settles under the duvet. He waits for five minutes exactly as Ilya settles into the next door bed, turning to face the wall. Shane's heart begins to thrum in his chest as he checks the clock on his bedside table. Five minutes gone. He places the book carefully to the side, reaching out to the light switch to plunge the room into darkness.

Casual, is what Ilya wants. And Shane can do casual. Even when he can still hear the hurt in Ilya's voice as he said that Shane should go.

“You mind if I jerk off?” Shane asks, forcing the words out of his mouth. His voice is clear, direct, not betraying the anticipation tight in his chest.

There’s a sudden rustling of sheets. Ilya must be turning over in his bed. “Okay,” he says, a slight strain in his voice.

Shane’s breathing speeds up. He’s committed to this. He wants this.

Right, he needs to—

Shane slides a tentative hand down his chest, over the muscle and further downwards. He can hear Ilya’s breathing from his bed, deep and loud in the silence of the room.

Ilya could be—listening, right now, could be hearing Shane's every action, he thinks, as his hand brushes a hand over his cock, his breath stuttering. It begins to harden under his touch, a current of anticipation running under his skin. He doesn't normally get this hard, quickly, but—Ilya's right there. The thought makes Shane—he doesn't even know. Makes him want to come.

He reaches out to the drawer in his nightstand, pulling out the lube.

The snap of the cap cuts through the heavy silence of the room, and he squeezes some into his hand, returning to his cock. It's fully hard now, weighty and leaking in his hand, and the lube is cold against his skin but he doesn't care.

He wonders if Ilya is—

Ilya could be trying to sleep. Could be ignoring Shane.

Or he could be listening, clinging to every sound, every slide of Shane’s hand on his cock.

Shane stills his hand for a moment.

In the silence, his ears can just make out Ilya’s breathing across the room. It’s heavy, harsh, almost breathless.

Is he—?

The breathing stops.

Shane starts the movement of his hand on his cock again, slower than before. Teasingly, the way that he does it when he wants to stretch it out. Enjoy it.

The breathing resumes across the room.

Ilya’s—fuck. Ilya’s listening.

Shane imagines Ilya reaching a hand down into his pyjama pants, grasping his cock, squeezing, rubbing in desperation. He imagines Ilya listening to Shane, coming over and touching him because he needs it that bad. Shane’s hand speeds up on his cock, but it’s not enough. He needs more. He needs—

Shane exhales shakily as he slides his hand down to where he needs it most. He pauses, feels the lube on his skin, before instinct overtakes him and his fingers are circling his hole, a slow brush just like when Ilya had touched him there before. Shane’s breathing is ragged as he pushes in the first finger, working up a rhythm as he fucks it in and out of himself.

Shane pushes in a second finger alongside the first, the slight burning of his rim drowned out by the desire burning in his stomach.

Ilya’s breathing is unmistakable now, across the room. Their breaths are ragged, in sync as Shane fucks himself, hard and desperate and as deep as he can get his finger inside.

Maybe he could—

It would be taunting to do that in front of Rozanov.

But… you’ve got your orgasm, Hollander. You can go now, Ilya had said.

Shane reaches out to the nightstand. He opens the drawer slowly, softly. Ilya’s breathing stops again across the room, as if he’s clinging to every one of Shane’s actions.

Shane pulls out his dildo. He fumbles in the dark for the lube, the snap of the bottle cutting through the silence once more. He coats his fingers, then the dildo, his heart pounding in his chest as he brings it down to his hole.

Can he tell what Shane’s about to do?

That thought is the one that makes Shane bring the dildo down to his hole, makes him begin to push it inside of himself.

It’s a slow and agonising drag as Shane seats the dildo inside himself completely. He can’t help but let out a breathless moan, pulling his knees to his chest to get it deeper inside. It’s not as deep as Ilya would be—but it’s close, nearly enough to quench that desperate thirst within Shane.

Shane’s hand, fumbling, pulls it out and back in again, his movements almost frantic as his desire grows, swelling and changing and blossoming inside of him. He fucking needs it, needs the drag inside of him and the jolts of pleasure that consume his whole body.

Shane’s other hand works around his cock, listening to every ragged breath across the room. The breaths increase in tempo and depth; they’re heavy, panting, and it makes Shane work the dildo harder and faster inside of him as he throws his head back with a low moan.

Ilya’s listening, listening closely to everything Shane is doing. He’s probably—he’s probably hard by now, hard in his pyjamas. Maybe, fuck, maybe he’s even touching himself, running a hand along his cock because he needs it that fucking bad, needs it just from listening to Shane fuck himself, so much that he can’t bear it any more.

The thought makes Shane’s back arch, a punched-out whine escaping his mouth, the drag of the dildo an agonising pleasure deep within himself, almost intolerable as his orgasm gets so close he’s shaking with it.

A strangled moan comes from across the room.

Shane stops his movements.

Did Ilya—?

Did Ilya just fucking come?

A need overtakes Shane, stronger than he thought possible, and he can hardly think as his hand resumes its desperate movements, fucking the dildo harder, faster, deeper inside of him, plummeting towards his orgasm; Ilya's moan replays in his mind over and over again, his orgasm building and building until he comes with a moaning cry, his head thrown back against the pillow and his legs pulled up to his chest.

The next morning, Shane and Ilya don’t say a word to each other as they walk to breakfast. Shane's moans play in his mind over and over, a cycle of humiliation that makes him wonder why he ever thought letting Ilya see that would be a good idea.

Inside the cafeteria, Shane keeps his head down as he forces down his scrambled eggs. He fucking hates eggs, but he needs the protein, so he keeps forcing them down, five of the six eggs on his plate, until he’s lifting the last forkful to his mouth. He gags as he looks at it.

“You’re fucking gagging, Hollander. Stop.” Ilya’s hand reaches out across the table, a frown on his face as he pulls Shane’s plate away from him.

Shane looks incredulously at Ilya. “Shut up. I can eat what I want.” He reaches out to pull the plate back towards himself again, but Ilya’s hand remains firm, the plate caught between them.

“No, you can’t. Coach told me I could stop you if you were getting obsessed with food. Again.”

A jolt of panic, of humiliation, jolts through Shane’s chest. Shane’s not some problem for Coach to offload to Ilya. “I’m not fucking obsessed with food. Just fuck off, Rozanov. I know you don’t actually give a shit.”

Ilya’s eyes snap up to Shane’s, his jaw tightening. He looks away as his hand lets go of the plate.

Ilya’s chair scrapes along the floor as he stands. His eyes are empty as he glances away from Shane, picking up his bag from the floor and marching out of the dining room.

Shane clears his throat as he looks back down at his food. He stares at it. Then pushes the plate away as he stands up to leave.

He doesn’t have a problem with food. And he doesn’t give a shit what Ilya thinks.

Each time Shane tells himself that, it becomes a little bit harder to convince himself it’s true.

The team plays against Michigan that weekend.

They’re down 2-0 by the third period, their skating messy and uncoordinated as Coach shouts commands from the bench. He sends Shane’s line out onto the ice again and again, until Shane has racked up twenty-seven minutes on the ice as third period comes to an end.

He hardly feels the puck leave his stick as his pass to Ilya is buried in the goal, only registering the goal when the arena erupts in cheers. They need another goal—two, really, but Shane’s knee is twinging and his chest is heaving as he collapses onto the bench.

That second goal never comes, the crowd filtering out of the stands before the whistle has even blown.

Coach chews them out in the locker room, his shouts jarring as he replays the tape.

“This should’ve been a goal,” he spits, his hands on his hips as he glares at the players in their stalls. “Hollander, your pass should’ve been faster. You’re wearing a letter and that’s a grade-A look. Should’ve been a goal.”

Shane nods where he’s slumped back in his cubicle. His face is sweat-soaked, his eyes half-lidded from the exhaustion flooding over him. His knee is twinging. But he still should’ve got that pass.

The team heads for the showers around him as he keeps his head bowed.

“With all due respect,” comes a voice, low and hard on the other side of the room, “He played twenty-seven minutes tonight. He got double-shifted, he’s gonna miss some chances.” Shane glances up to see Ilya in his cubicle, facing the coach who’s standing in the middle of the room.

“You running the bench now, then?” Coach’s voice is cutting as he stares at Ilya.

But Ilya’s eyes remain stern as he looks up at Coach. “Not at all. I’m just offering my opinion.”

The silence stretches out between the two men, taut as each person waits for the other to give.

“Skate tomorrow at six a.m. Whole team.” Coach strides out of the room, his stare hard and his mouth fixed in a pinched line. He slams the door shut as he leaves.

Ilya smirks as he leans back in his booth for a moment in defiant satisfaction before he stands up and strolls to the showers.

Shane frowns as he stands up, pulling off his clothes and wrapping his towel around himself. He follows Ilya to the shower, where the rest of the team are rinsing under the streams of water, flicking their hair as they walk back to the changing room. Shane positions himself in the shower next to Ilya as the room empties around them.

“You don’t need to speak for me,” Shane mutters as he lathers up the soap, running it across his chest as he keeps his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him.

“Wasn’t speaking for you, Hollander.” Ilya tilts his head up towards the ceiling, reaching a hand over his shoulder to run the soapy water over his back. “You’ll be injured before the playoffs with minutes like that.”

Shane huffs in disbelief. Maybe Ilya wants the team to do well, but Shane’s not so naive that he’s going to believe that Ilya is actually looking out for him, his rival for the draft. “I’m the captain. I can speak for myself,” he says.

“Just need to apply that leadership to yourself, Hollander. You’re as bad as Coach at driving yourself into the ground.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, his voice incredulous as he glances behind them. The room is clear. “You just wanna be captain, asshole.”

There’s a flicker of hurt in Ilya’s eyes as he turns away, heading back to the changing room.

Their dorm room is heavy with sullen silence that evening, and Shane is sure that the jerking off thing won’t happen again.

But then heavy breathing starts across the room, a panting that Shane recognises.

He guesses that they’re doing this, then, in the dark and quiet of the night.

It happens again the next night, and the next, their breathing heavy and their moans barely restrained as they listen to each other’s pants in the dark of their dorm room. Sometimes Shane uses his dildo, sometimes he fingers himself.

Once, in a moment of desperation, he sucks his fingers, shoving two into his mouth as he imagines it’s Ilya’s cock, jerking himself off with the other hand.

Shane doesn’t know exactly what Ilya does in his own bed. But he knows that Ilya’s moans grow more desperate, more raw, each time they do this. And Shane’s moans grow more desperate in return, until the two of them are balancing on a knife-edge as the team head into the Beanpot.

BU goes into the competition as the favourite. Lines of BU fans crowd into the arena, holding signs and shouting chants. The biggest game of the season, for them. The one fuelled by years of rivalry, the one with the most bitter competition and the most ruthless play.

Each player's eyes are drawn to the crowd. Shane watches as they take in the banners and the expectation on each one's face, then glance down at their stick again. The pressure of the crowd is a tangible buzz of energy when they return to the changing room after warm-ups.

“We’ll take it shift-by-shift, game-by-game. I know what this team is capable of. I know that we can go all the way,” Shane tells the team as they stand in the changing room before the final against BC, met by whoops as they shove each other’s backs and shout encouragement, heading for the ice.

Ilya’s yells echo through the tunnel as Shane steps out into the wave of freezing air, his skates sliding across the ice. The hordes of students cheer as Ilya comes out last, heading to centre ice for the puck-drop.

The play is swift and rough and furious, the puck dragged down the ice to one side, then up the other. Shane and Ilya send each other pass after pass and the puck hurtles towards the goal before it’s blocked, heading down the ice and towards the other goal in a matter of seconds.

It’s an equal game, a vicious game, full of hits and shouts that lead to penalties, then desperate penalty kills as each person in the arena holds their breath in silent anticipation.

When the goal comes, it’s in overtime, on the counter. Shane’s shot deflects off the goalie, spinning onto the stick of a BC player. The BC player charges down the ice, Shane and Ilya sprinting back down, trailing the player as the defenseman tries to jab for the puck.

But the puck slots into the goal, around the stick of the goaltender.

Cheers go up around the arena, the BC players crowding around one another on one side of the ice.

On the other side, the BU players skate to the bench, their heads bowed.

The silence is mournful as the team changes and heads back to the hotel. Coach had made some half-arsed speech about trying again, about pushing through difficulty, met with silence.

Shane pushes the door of the hotel room open. It’s a special kind of cruelty, Shane thinks, that he’s forced to share with Ilya when all he wants to do is hide himself away and let the tears fall down his cheeks. When he just wants to let the facade slip for once, the facade of the perfect player and perfect captain.

When Shane was younger, there was a time when he'd scored an own goal in practice. It was't anything, really, no one's fault. But a raging tide of bitterness had risen up within Shane, had burst out of him. He'd stormed off the ice, hurled an insult at his coach.

His mom had slapped him, then, on his left cheek by the side of the rink. Not hard, just enough to sting. But it had hurt more than anything in the world, to ten-year-old Shane.

Each loss feels like that now, like the sting of the slap on his left cheek that makes his eyes burn with tears. Shane can almost feel the echo of the slap on his cheek now, as he stares down at the duvet. He can almost see the way that his mom had looked into his eyes and told him to try again, that shouting at his coach wouldn't change anything. She'd said that she knew that Shane could be better, do better, be the better hockey player.

Shane hadn't got angry again, after that.

Now, he can feel Ilya's eyes upon him, calm and curious. Rozanov doesn't get affected by losses the way that Shane does. Rozanov just lets the loss brush off him, lets it fuel his game. Ilya Rozanov is too good to get affected by the loss. He's not like Shane.

Shane wants to feel that same tide of bitterness at the thought, to take it out on Rozanov the way that he might have tried just a few weeks ago.

Instead, he's just left with the ache of a slap on his left cheek.

He needs to eat dinner, should order room service. But before he can reach for the menu, Ilya’s picking up the phone, talking quietly into it as he orders enough for the both of them.

Shane tries to muster up some semblance of anger within himself: Ilya can’t, shouldn’t control him. But then the overtime goal rushes through his mind again. He focuses on the yellow and red pattern of the scratchy blanket beneath him, instead.

It’s nice, sometimes, to have someone take care of things for you. Just for a little while.

Ilya hands Shane a plate of his usual chicken and rice when the room service arrives, before he sits back down on his own bed. Shane stares down at the food.

The chicken looks like it does in the school cafeteria. Plain. The rice looks as flavourless as it always does, and the sauce is on the side in a little bowl like Shane prefers.

The food is fine. It’s what Shane likes. What he should like.

So why does it feel like the hardest thing in the world to eat it?

Shane turns on his bed so that his back is to Ilya, the plate in his lap. His hand trembles as he reaches for the fork, pushing it into the chicken and lifting the knife to cut it.

But a choking nausea is rising up in Shane’s throat, a visceral repulsion for the food in front of him. He wants to throw it against the wall. But he can’t do that, can never do that, so instead his lip trembles as he looks down at the food.

A hand is reaching out, the plate being lifted out of Shane’s lap, replaced by a bowl of pasta. “Try.” Ilya’s voice is low, murmuring as he stands next to the bed.

Shane turns his head away. He looks back down at the bowl in his lap. He can—he can try. If Ilya wants him to. He offers a small, jerking nod.

Shane lifts the fork, taking a piece of pasta and raising it to his lips.

The bed shifts behind him, and there’s a hand, gentle, soft, on his back. It’s rubbing up and down, a slow motion that doesn’t change. That won’t change as long as Ilya does this for him.

Shane’s throat aches as tears finally spill from his eyes, running silently down his cheeks as he lifts the pasta to his mouth.

Shane chews and painfully swallows down each mouthful. His tears mix with the food, but he keeps chewing, keeps swallowing until the whole bowl is gone.

Chapter End Notes

Hope everyone survived the ao3 shutdown and is recovering from such a traumatic event. :)

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

“I’ve booked an appointment with the team psychologist,” Shane blurts out. He’s lying on his back on his bed, Ilya in a mirror position across the room.

The…tension between them has melted somewhat, the frigid silence of their meals relaxing into stilted conversation. More ginger beers have appeared in their shared fridge, and Shane has started asking Ilya what he thinks about the team’s tactics. They haven’t even done the jerking off thing since before the Beanpot two days ago.

The loss weighs heavy on Shane’s mind, each missed chance and every goal opportunity. But the NCAA playoffs are already approaching, so Shane can’t afford to process the loss, or whatever bullshit his sports psychology book wants him to do.

“Okay,” Ilya says.

“It’s good, right, therapy? To like—discuss stuff, or whatever.” Shane glances across the room at Ilya.

“You don’t need my approval, Hollander.”

“I just thought it’s a good thing with the draft coming, or whatever.” Shane pauses as he clasps his hand in his lap. “For everyone.”

Ilya’s eyes stay fixed on the ceiling above him. “I’m not seeing a psychologist, Hollander.”

“Okay, I just thought it might be good, or whatever.” Shane shrugs, getting off his bed and walking over to his desk. He opens his laptop to do a tape review. He doesn’t care what Ilya thinks, he tells himself as he types in his password, slamming the keys vigorously.

He scribbles down notes as he watches the tape until the sun has set and his eyes are drooping. Ilya has been moping around the room, doing some tape review of his own before lying flat on his bed, then checking the vodka in the fridge and humming in an effort to distract Shane.

Shane tries to hold back a yawn, his head drooping as he forces his eyes open. But the moving figures of the players continue to blur as Shane’s eyes fall shut.

“Hollander.” Ilya’s voice is soft above him as a hand touches Shane’s arm. “Hollander, it’s ten. It’s your bedtime.”

Shane pushes himself up from where he was slumped onto his desk, looking up at Ilya as he blinks his eyes open.

“Oh, shit. I had more games to watch over. I need to ask you about our power play too.” Shane’s voice is heavy with sleepy exhaustion.

“We can do it in the morning. Come on, Hollander.” Ilya pulls Shane up by the arm, leading him to his closet. “Put on your pyjamas.”

“I don’t need directions,” Shane grumbles as he blushes, turning away to pull on his pyjama pants.

“Okay,” Ilya says, a slight smirk on his face as Shane catches his leg trying to put his leg through the hole and almost falls, his cheeks flushing bright red.

When Shane goes to brush his teeth, Ilya stands next to him in the mirror, and their eyes flick across to one another in the reflection, the bathroom silent around them but for the sound of their brushing. Ilya’s hand is grasping the sink, his arm tensing and relaxing unconsciously. Shane swallows.

Back in the room, Shane combs his hair in the mirror before applying his moisturiser, brushing his hands over his freckles in the mirror. They’re coming out more as spring begins; Shane frowns as he studies them. Do people like freckles? He can’t tell if he should be embarrassed of them.

Ilya, all the while, watches Shane from where he’s perched on his bed. “Are you gonna—” Ilya starts.

Shane looks back at Ilya. His hair is dishevelled, falling in an elegant mess of curls over his forehead. He’s shirtless: Shane can see the way that his chest curves downwards into the cut of his waist, the lines of his pelvis just above his dick. Shane reaches down an unsteady hand to adjust himself in his pants. The touch makes Shane tense up, makes him want to fall back against the closet and let Ilya come to him.

Shane looks across into the mirror again: there’s a flush high on his cheeks, his hair dishevelled like Ilya’s. His lips are a little puffy from being chewed, his pyjama top pulled to the side like someone’s had their hands on his chest. Shane swallows. He reaches down to adjust himself again, and then stops.

He sort of—sort of looks like how he imagines he would after being fucked. Not that—he’s not gonna—he doesn’t—whatever. He’s not thinking about that right now. Getting fucked isn’t even on the cards. That’s properly gay, not like this—this experiment, this fun, with Ilya.

But still. He wants to take a photo, to show himself that he’s not just Shane Hollander, hockey player, captain, golden boy. Shane Hollander can look like this, can look like he’s been fucked. Like—like maybe, he’s kind of slutty. He lifts a hand to brush over his lips. They’re kind of nice, like this, pouty and bitten red. They’re soft under his touch. He wants to suck on his fingers and show Ilya the way that his lips look wrapped around them.

To show Ilya: Shane Hollander can be a slut, sometimes. He wants to laugh with Ilya and tell him he’s the only one that knows. Your secret, he might say, and straddle Ilya’s lap. He reaches down again, and his dick is pressing up out of his pyjama bottoms, now.

There’s a noise from behind. Shane jumps, turns. Ilya is laying back against the headboard, his body at an awkward angle. He’s silent, watching Shane, and his throat is held tight. “Are you gonna use your dildo tonight?” he asks, the words strained.

“Yeah, probably,” Shane says, his mouth moving before he can think, the words blurted out too fast. The room is silent, still. Shane’s dick twitches. “You can watch if you want. Or like, touch. Just—like, casual.”

Ilya’s body is held taut. His eyes narrow as he looks at Shane. “Hollander,” he says, getting up off the bed and padding closer. His eyes are fixed on Shane’s lips. There’s a moment of silence, and then Ilya’s hand is on Shane’s chest, pushing him up against his closet. He's pressed between the closet door and Ilya's hand. Trapped.

“Teasing me, Hollander.” Ilya’s words are breathless, whispered as his lips come closer to Shane’s, leaning closer, closer, until their breaths are mingling, their eyes dragging across each other’s lips.

Shane waits, for a moment. And then he thinks: casual. Is this casual? He doesn’t think it is. He doesn’t think that their lips should be almost touching like this. Shane shouldn’t be wanting to say: you’re the only one who knows that I like this, Ilya. Just you.

Shane turns his head away.

Ilya's still for a moment. Shane can feel his breath against his cheek.

And then Ilya steps back, his cheeks flushed.

Shane drops to his knees: this, he can do, where Ilya can’t tell how fast Shane’s heart is beating.

Detached. Casual, like Ilya wants.

It’s good, sucking Ilya’s cock, feeling the weight of it in his mouth and the pressure of it on his tongue, trying to coax those words of murmured praise out of him. But Shane’s mind can’t help but wander back to Ilya’s lips, almost brushing his own. He knows that Ilya’s lips would be hot, wet, that his tongue would be pressing in too fast because that’s the way Ilya likes it. Because Ilya shivered, last time, when Shane sucked on his tongue. Shane knows how Ilya likes it, now.

But he can’t have it.

Instead, Shane’s mouth on Ilya’s cock is methodical, attentive, doing what he knows he should to please Ilya. But Ilya is quiet, breathless above him when he would normally swear and gasp and tell Shane he’s fucking good.

It’s good. It’s what Shane wants, when Ilya comes down his throat and Shane swallows eagerly around him, and when Ilya goes down on his knees in front of him and Shane comes down his throat in return.

But Shane can’t help but see himself in the mirror again, imagining himself fucked out and slutty for real this time.

Shane goes to his appointment with the sports psychologist the next day. His hands tremble as he fills in the agreement of confidentiality: he’d made sure that no one would know he was coming, that the team could never find out that their captain was doing this kind of thing.

Shane knows that this isn’t bad, exactly. It’s important for people, and it’s good for athletes especially. But if the team found out, Shane doesn’t think he would live it down. Besides, Shane’s book about meditation for athletes had mentioned the benefits of sports counselling for athletes. So, really, this appointment is to help his hockey performance.

It’s not because he can’t look at his food as he eats, and it’s not because he has to fight to not spend each hour of every day in the gym. And definitely not because the pressure of the draft feels like an insurmountable weight pressing down on his back, growing heavier and heavier as the days tick down towards the draft.

By the time that Shane finally enters the therapist’s office, his mouth is pressed into a thin line, his fingers drumming a rhythm on his arm.

He’s doing this to help his sports performance. To help his hockey, he tells himself. But he can’t help thinking that he could be in the gym right now, making a material improvement to his hockey rather than some intangible change to his mentality.

In the end, the appointment is boring and repetitive, filled with vague questions about his goals and motivations with therapy.

“To get better at hockey,” Shane says.

“I mean what are your goals with these sessions? What do you want to achieve?”

“To get better at hockey,” Shane repeats.

Why else would he be here?

”I won’t be able to do this during playoffs, by the way,” Shane says before he walks out. “It might mess with my game, so.”

He watches as her eyes run over him. They’re curious, dissecting. They make Shane want to take a step backwards.

”Okay,” she says after a moment. “I’ll arrange a few more sessions before.”

Shane nods and scurries out of the room, heading straight for the door and taking a gulp of fresh air as he steps outside.

”Fuck,” he murmurs, and then glances around with wide eyes for anyone who might recognise him.

“I—um, saw the team psychologist today.” Shane tells Rose as the waitress puts down his decaf black coffee in front of him. His voice is low, soft as he looks across the table, not quite able to look directly at Rose.

“That’s great, Shane. How did it go?”

“It was fine, I guess.” Shane mumbles. “I just—wanted to tell someone, I guess. Cause I can’t tell the team.”

Rose holds out her vanilla latte, offering a sip to Shane. He shakes his head. He can’t have something with that much sugar, with milk and chemicals and who knows what else.

“No one else knows?”

“My—um, my roommate knows. Ilya Rozanov.”

Rose laughs. “I know who he is—your draft rival. Is he a friend of yours? How come you guys are rooming together?”

“Kind of,” Shane says. “We didn’t get put together by choice.” He takes a breath as he looks down at his coffee. “Actually, it’s because he, um, told Coach that I apparently have issues with food. So Coach put us together in a room so he can keep an eye on me.”

“Is that why you’re seeing the psychologist? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Kind of, yeah.” Shane says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Actually, could I try some of your drink?”

“Of course,” Rose smiles, holding it out to him.

Shane exhales slowly for a moment, looking down at the drink before he takes a small sip. It’s the first time in a long while that he’s had anything like it, with milk and sugar. But it’s—surprisingly nice, sweet on Shane’s tongue. He feels almost accomplished as he hands it back to Rose. Which is stupid.

That warm, blossoming feeling in his chest sticks with Shane as he walks back through campus. He’s made a real, true, friend, and that the pounding in his chest each time he eats something might not last forever.

He might even be able to get over this thing that he has for Rozanov.

“That play was predictable,” Ilya says as he stands behind Shane, who’s sitting at his desk with his laptop open, tape playing. Ilya spent his afternoon laying on his bed, silent, his eyes on Shane. Shane could feel them on his back, wandering over him. Whatever Ilya was waiting for, he doesn't know; but eventually he had padded up behind him, his hand finding Shane's shoulders. He'd begun chirping him with that teasing lilt to his voice. It's fake, almost cutting. Shane doesn't like it, so he doesn't give in. Not yet, at least.

“Predictable because it’s a good play to make,” Shane frowns.

Ilya leans down to his ear, his hands massaging Shane’s shoulders. “Unpredictability beats good technique.” His voice has taken on a different tone. It's curious, maybe, less of the sickly-sweet teasing. It's a little breathy, a little quieter. Shane likes Ilya's voice like this: it's honest, unconcealed.

“Unpredictability is dangerous.” Shane keeps his eyes focussed on the screen. “That’s why you gave that goal away yesterday.”

“Okay, Mr Captain,” Ilya lilts, back to his teasing tone. Shane frowns. “If that’s what you say.” Ilya slides his hands down from Shane’s shoulders, over his pecs until they’re resting on the muscles of Shane’s stomach. They move up and down with the motion of Shane's breathing. He leans his head back ever so slightly, towards the warmth of Ilya’s body. Not enough to touch—but closer. Just to enjoy, because Shane is allowed to.

Because it’s casual.

“What other feedback does my boring, mean captain have for me,” Ilya says, his voice low as his hands brush over Shane’s stomach, moving outwards towards Shane’s waist until he’s holding it, his hands wide as they stroke up and down.

Shane inhales sharply at the touch. He looks back at the rows of uniform notes on his notepad, swallows tightly. “You—um, you sometimes drift before we even have the puck.” Ilya’s hands continue to move. He pulls his hands back up Shane’s chest, running a broad hand over his peck, his thumb brushing over Shane’s nipple through his t-shirt. Shane’s dick twitches in his sweatpants.

Shane wants to tip his head back until his neck is exposed and his eyes are on Ilya. He wants to ask: why are you doing this with me? How much longer do I have? Instead, he says: “Fuck,” his voice breathless.

“Hmm, no.” Ilya says. “You can only talk about hockey. Tell me about my play.”

So, Shane thinks, maybe it's the hockey that does it for Rozanov: the push-and-pull, the tug of war that is Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov. Or maybe it's the simplicity of it: two bodies, close by, ready to touch; maybe Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov don't matter at all. Maybe it's only their bodies, sensation, touch.

But whatever it is, it's casual. Casual: Shane wants to say the word out loud and feel it on his lips. It's casual, as easily cut off as a hockey game at the buzzer. This thing will be finished with the call of a name at the draft. And maybe that's all that matters: maybe Shane can let this drug flood through his system, rush through his blood, make the world fall away. Just for a bit, he doesn't have to be Shane Hollander.

And Shane is going to fucking enjoy it.

“Fuck, okay,” Shane says. He tips his head back, arching his back, just slightly, as Ilya’s hand runs down his chest, cups his cock through his sweatpants, returns to Shane’s nipple. A flurry of sensation; the laptop screen dies in front of him. Shane takes a breath. “Your wrist shot is your best strength, but you don’t do it enough because you’re—” he inhales sharply as Ilya’s hand cups his cock once more. “You don’t like to make predictable plays.”

“Yes,” Ilya breathes.

“And—you don’t like to pass because you want to score yourself.” Ilya’s hand is stroking up and down Shane’s cock over his sweatpants now, his breathing rasping next to Shane’s ear. “And you definitely don’t want to pass to me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you know that I’m a better goal-scorer than you are.” With that, Shane tips his head back. He looks up at Ilya with wide, open eyes, a half-smile. A smirk, maybe.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya breathes, mock outrage in his voice as he looks down into Shane’s eyes. “My captain is so cruel, a dirty liar. How should I teach him a lesson?”

Shane pauses, takes a breath. Casual: cut off as easily as a game of hockey at the buzzer. “However you want,” he says.

With that, Ilya swings Shane’s chair around so that they’re facing each other, dropping to his knees and pulling Shane’s sweatpants and boxers down. He pushes Shane’s legs up, over the arms of the chair. “Hold them there,” he says.

Shane puts his hands underneath his thighs, holding them open so that he’s completely exposed, vulnerable to Ilya and whatever he wants to do to Shane.

Ilya fingers Shane like that, his legs pulled open over the arms of the chair and his head thrown back as he whimpers at the jolts of pleasure rushing through him.

Shane's so wrapped up in the pleasure of it all that he doesn't notice Ilya leaning down, doesn't recognise the brush of Ilya's lips on his thigh for what it is—

And suddenly Ilya’s mouth is on Shane's hole.

“Fuck—”

Shane's leg jolts, a weird, trembling rush of hunger running through him, his heart thumping—Ilya wants to do that to him?

He glances down to see Ilya pulling away, glancing up. “Is good?” He asks, his accent strong as his eyes trace over Shane’s face.

Shane's saying the words before he even knows what they mean, before he can even remember that he's supposed to be detached and— “Yeah, yeah, fuck, Rozanov,” he gasps, and Ilya leans back down to suck and kiss and fuck Shane with his tongue, the thoughts evaporating from Shane's head as a whine slips out of him. He has just enough mental capacity to think this is embarrassing, before Ilya’s hand is reaching up to his cock, stroking him once, twice, an agonising, teasing series of touches and Shane is coming over his stomach as he gasps Rozanov’s name.

That same day, it’s confirmed that BU have won Hockey East, and the team go to their usual bar, crowding into two booths with their beers. The bar is full of shouts and music, and Shane’s teammates press against him as they squeeze in next to each other, Ilya on the opposite side of the booth.

Shane had even cracked a smile when Coach confirmed it. But the conference playoffs begin in a matter of days, and scouts will be swarming the tournament, watching every mistake and every misstep that Shane makes. He was creeping ahead of Ilya in the draft rankings when he had checked them last night, but he’s not going to let his guard down.

He takes a sip of the beer placed in front of him: the bitter taste is heavy on his tongue. He thinks of the empty calories he’s consuming, the dehydrating effects of alcohol.

But it’s what everyone does—drinking beer. And if everyone does it, Shane does it too.

“Cap needs to get laid tonight, eh?” A voice cuts through Shane’s thoughts as hands land on his shoulders, jerking him back and forth. Shane looks up to see his teammate grinning next to him.

“Not with the playoffs so close,” Shane smiles tightly as the hands stay firm, clasped on his shoulders. His teammate is swaying slightly, his brow pinched into a child-like frown. They're always like this, when they're drunk: pressing too close, swaying and glaring. Together, they go out. Together, they find girls to fuck. They don't like it when Shane doesn't: they say he thinks he's better than them, heading off the the MLH next year. Shane's heard it. He's used to it.

“You say that every time, dude. Go get a girl.”

Shane looks up to see Ilya’s eyes trained on him across the table, his mouth pressed into a line and his hand tight on his vodka.

“He’s got a girl already. He’s a loyal man, Smithsy. Rose Landry, right?” another teammate leans across the table, smirking as he glances between the team. “She’s hot as fuck dude, wish I could get a piece of that ass. You dating her for real?”

“We’re not—” Shane stops. He hears the insults in the room again, their hyena-like laughs, the way of the way that they talk. His eyes flick around the room, around the eyes of his teammates trained upon him. He looks down at his beer. And then: “Yeah—we’re, um—we’re dating.”

“Fuck, dude. Tell me if you break up. I wanna get a piece of that.”

Shane’s teammates cackle around him, and Shane—Shane smiles too. Because that’s the way things are.

His eyes flick to Ilya again. His gaze is set on Shane, unblinking as if he’s dissecting him. Shane looks down, then back up. He grips his beer; Rozanov is still looking, prying into his mind. And then he leans back in the booth, sighing slightly before he takes a shot of vodka. Shane watches the motion of his throat as it goes. He wonders what Ilya has decided. That Shane Hollander is a coward, probably. He's not wrong.

“Good for you, man,” Hayden says, leaning across the teammates to ruffle Shane’s hair. Shane hopes he doesn’t see him flinch. “Bring her to the playoffs. We need a good-luck charm.”

Shane ducks his head, his cheeks reddening as a chorus of shouts rises up around him, each person saying how hot Rose is, or how well Shane’s done to get a girl like her, or how they wish he was him.

Who knew that the answer to acceptance was as easy as a hot girlfriend?

Thank you for being honest, Shane’s mom would always say, and Shane would glow with pride at the words. He’d considered it one of his best traits, when he was younger, that he was always the first to admit he’d done something wrong. To prioritise honesty over his own pride.

Not anymore, he supposes, and thinks about what his mom would say. She does love hockey, though, so maybe she would understand.

“Our golden boy is a liar, hmm?” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s ear. His voice doesn't sound like his own. It sounds too deep, somehow, underneath the high pitch of the music. His arm is draped across the back of the booth from when he moved over next to Shane with the rest of their teammates leaving the booth to dance or search for a girl to fuck.

“Shut up,” Shane mutters in response, frowning down at his second beer as his hand trembles beneath the table. “It’s just for tonight. To stop them telling me to hook up with someone.”

“And what about tomorrow, Hollander?” Ilya says.

Shane’s frown deepens and his hand tightens around his beer. "You don't know what it's like," he says. Because Ilya doesn't: Shane saw him last semester with girls on his arm. He doesn't know.

“You’re not gonna tell Rose, right?” Shane asks as he gets changed for bed that night. His voice sounds strained; his eyes are directed at his closet, away from Rozanov.

Ilya continues pulling his Adidas t-shirt over his head, facing his closet. “Maybe,” he says thoughtfully.

Shane’s breathing picks up as he turns to face Ilya’s back. It's annoyingly muscular. “You don’t—it was just for tonight, okay? I’ll tell them we broke up tomorrow, I swear. I just—I just wanted them to stop telling me to get a girl. I know it was fucked up.”

“I won’t tell her, Hollander, relax. I don’t know why you keep doing this to yourself. They’ll tell you to go get a girl next time if you tell them you broke up.”

“I can’t—" Shane starts. He takes a step forwards. He laughs, once: it's biting, nasty. "I’m not like you, Rozanov.” Ilya starts to turn around, his eyes meeting Shane's. They look empty, restrained, like always. It makes Shane's voice tighten as he speaks. “I don’t want to hook up with a girl. At all. You can just—fuck some random fucking chick and they’ll think you’re the shit. Like they always do."

"Hollander," Ilya says, his voice dry like Shane's being unfair. How dare he, Shane thinks, and then he wonders when he got so bitter.

"You can fuck women and be happy, right?" Shane's voice cracks as he speaks. His throat hurts. "I—I don't want to do that. Fuck."

Ilya's grip tightens on the pants in his hand. “You think it’s easy for me, Hollander?" An incredulous laugh bubbles out of him. "You don’t even know what Russia is like. I can fuck girls, as many girls as I fucking want."

Shane swallows.

"But if I fuck one singular guy and they find out? I can never go back there. Never, Hollander.” There’s a beat of silence. “It’s not fucking easy.”

Shane turns round to face his closet again. He can feel Ilya's eyes on his back.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

"It's fine," Ilya mutters, and turns around to continue getting ready for bed.

When Shane manages to muster up energy to do the same, there's a slight tremble to his hands.

“Are things—okay, in Russia for you?" The words are spilling out of Shane's mouth before he can hold them back, his eyes trained away from Ilya.

There's a moment of silence before Ilya replies. "Things are—bad. But I'm lucky, here. They can't get me. But if I was in Russia, and they knew—"

Ilya doesn't have to finish his sentence for Shane to know what he means.

In bed, a few minutes later, Ilya's words run through Shane's mind over and over; he turns onto one side, and then the other. He exhales and pulls the covers tighter around himself, then pushes them back when they feel stifling around him.

"Relax," Ilya murmurs from the other side of the room.

Shane turns to face him. "Sorry," he says, his voice too loud.

He hears Ilya turn over in bed. "You don't need to get stressed about Russia. It won't do anything."

"I'm not," Shane whispers back, his voice irritated.

"Okay."

Neither of them moves.

"I wouldn't be happy just fucking women for the rest of my life, you know," Ilya murmurs.

"Oh," Shane says. It makes something twist in his stomach. He imagines everyone Ilya’s fucked in a room together: the pretty girls, the guys—whatever his type is. Shane Hollander. He imagines himself standing out, people staring. He imagines Ilya fucking each person, the way that Shane would grow breathless with desperation. When would Ilya choose him? Last?

He hears the rustle of sheets as Ilya turns over in bed in the other side of the room. The soft sounds of his breath are the only noise in the silence of their darkened room. Shane listens to them as they even out into the slow rise and fall of sleep.

As Shane lies there with his eyes squeezed shut, he pictures, in the depths of his mind, Ilya coming up to him in that room of people who want him, and fucking Shane there on the floor. He imagines Ilya turning away from everyone and fucking Shane desperately, pressing their lips together, saying his name. He imagines everyone else watching, wanting Ilya. But they can’t have him, because Ilya just wants Shane.

At three in the morning, Shane wakes to cum sticky in his pyjama pants and his mind like static. He changes in the darkness of the room with Ilya’s breath deep and slow next to him.

Don’t be stupid, he tells himself, and locks the memory away in the depths of his mind.

Chapter End Notes

Wow, Shane is a horny mess.

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

For some reason when downloaded this chapter makes the second half italicised - sorry for any inconvenience. I’m not sure why this has only happened on the downloaded version but I’m gonna try and fix it when I get the chance. Hopefully it’s not too distracting.

The next day, BU begins the conference playoffs. The team is fired-up and volatile before each game, their shouts chorusing together in the tunnel, the crowd cheering louder with every goal. They beat Lowell 7-2, Northeastern 4-1, and Ilya insists on drinking a shot of vodka after each win, whilst Shane does his post-game stretching routine in their dorm.

"You didn't hold that long enough," he says to Shane. Or: "Stretch your legs wider," "Hold your legs straighter."

"Shut up," Shane always replies in a singular huff of breath, his cheeks flaming. He thinks of his mom, texting him focus, before the game. Don't get distracted.

I love you, she'd added a moment later.

So Shane doesn't give in. Not even when Ilya watches him expectantly, not even when he wakes up hard each morning. Instead, his mind lingers on the Beanpot loss last month, the sigh of the crowd when they lost, the banners that were left scattered across the floor, trampled on.

He looks at his mom’s texts on his phone and thinks: I won't let sex fuck up this tournament.Even casual can wait.

In the changing room before the BC game, the team bangs their sticks against the floor; they stand, shout, slap each other, acrid sweat fills the room. Focus.

Ilya gets up from his cubicle, passing the smelling salts to Shane. He takes a sniff, wincing as he passes them back. Suddenly, Ilya’s chest is bumping into his and he’s stumbling backwards.

“Sorry,” Ilya says, holding his hand out in apology. “For good luck.”

"Okay," Shane says, offering Ilya a wry smile. He steps forwards to bang his chest into Ilya’s once more. They turn and stride to the tunnel, Ilya directly behind Shane rather than at the back of the line as normal. The corridor is silent, and then the doors are opening and the shouts of the crowd are flooding through, the chill of the arena settling into Shane’s skin.

His world begins to narrow down to the ice alone, to a pinprick of focus where only the sound of the puck on the ice matters.

Five minutes into the game, Shane glides round the back of the goal, shaking off the defenseman behind him. He passes the puck onto Ilya’s stick. Within a second, the puck is in the back of the net, Ilya's shot too fast to see. The BU fans explode, the arena roars around them. Shane finds Ilya’s arms, dropping his head onto Ilya’s shoulder, and the arena is silent for a moment. And then his teammates are slapping his back, the sound of the crowd is back in his ears, and he's turning away.

When the buzzer signals the end of the game, echoing through the arena, the team crowds onto the ice.

"Come on," Shane shouts, bodies slamming into him.

The team goes out to a bar afterwards, squeezing into a booth and downing too many beers. Their eyes scan the room for girls: Shane watches them look each one up and down, taking in each of their features as if it’s a pageant.

This time, when Shane mutters that he and Rose have broken up, he refuses the calls that he should find some girl to fuck.

"I'm fine," he says, when Thompson brings a girl over to him, presenting her to Shane like she's the finest piece of meat in the supermarket. "I'm fine. Sorry," he says to the girl, and glances up at the ceiling.

Ilya shuffles around the table so that he’s next to Shane, Hayden on Ilya’s other side, chattering about the goals.

A broad hand slides over Shane's leg.

Shane jumps. His cheeks flush as he looks around for anyone who might have noticed.

It doesn't move, Ilya's hand. He just lets the warmth of it seep into Shane's skin, leaves the weight of it resting on Shane's thigh.

Shane shifts in his seat, tries to listen to Hayden's chattering about the goalie's saves. His hand twitches where it's resting on the table.

Don't get distracted, his mom had said.

He thinks of the burning humiliation of his fantasy last night. He feels his own cum sticky in his pyjamas because he wanted Ilya to choose him so badly. Because he wanted Ilya to fuck him in front of all those people and show him that he wanted Shane and Shane alone.

And worst of all, Shane feels himself growing hard with the weight of Ilya’s hand on his thigh and the fantasy in his mind. His cheeks fill with blood, his pulse hammers. His teammate is trying to chat someone up nearby, laughing with ugly, fake caws; Hayden is too loud, the lights too bright. He can’t think. He wants to touch his cock.

Ilya’s hand rises further up his thigh. Shane's gaze flits towards him: his features are illuminated by the golden lights of the bar, a slight smile on his face as he listens to Hayden speak. His eyes look almost amber in the light.

Shane's breath hitches. The pressure on his thigh feels heavier.

His hand begins to inch towards Ilya's leg.

“How much have you had to drink, Shane? You’re super red,” Hayden asks.

“Oh—not, not much.” He pulls his flaming cheeks up into a tight smile. Hayden looks at him, his brow furrowed. “Actually—I should go, I have had a lot to drink.”

Shane pushes out of the booth, Ilya muttering something to Hayden as he follows close behind. He walks unsteadily out of the bar, his sweater held over his crotch and heat running up his neck.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Ilya smirks as he opens the door. The cold of the night hits Shane head-on and the door slams shut behind him as he steps out into the darkness of the street.

"What the fuck," he says, turning to glare at Ilya.

"What?"

"I can't have—" he strides down the street, Ilya following behind. His voice is a whisper. "—I can't have sex during the competition. It'll mess with my game." Shane's breath clouds the air in front of him, his pulse too fast. He should get a taxi back home.

"Bullshit." Ilya's voice comes out of nowhere.

"What?" Shane turns around, meets Ilya's gaze with a glare.

"It's not distraction. It's... how do you say. Pressure release."

Shane glances back at the bar. The golden light is seeping out into the deserted street, the music and chatter now distant.

He takes a breath, then reaches out, clasps Ilya's sweater, the texture rough underneath his fingertips; he pushes Ilya backwards until his back is flush against the brick.

The sparse moonlight is making Ilya's eyes gleam. It lightens his nose and the ridge of his cheekbones, casting shadows across his face. It's the same Rozanov that he's always known. The one who told the coaches what he saw in the dining room. The Rozanov that he should hate.

"You're just—" Shane says, his voice a whisper. "Just—"

Ilya doesn't say anything, just lets his eyes linger on Shane's face.

"Just—" Shane says again, and takes a step closer.

"Pressure release," Ilya murmurs, a slight smile on his face. He brings a hand up to brush over the shell of Shane's ear. He knows what Shane is going to do. And Shane knows it, too.

Shane's lips are finding Ilya's.

Ilya's lips are cold and they taste like alcohol, and Shane is pressing his tongue into Ilya's mouth far too quickly, and Ilya is kissing him back with the same ferocity: he slides his hands into his hair, over his body, down to his waist. He pulls them flush together, holds Shane close.

Pressure release, Shane thinks. Casual.

He sinks further into Ilya's arms, and Ilya holds him close. His hands slide up the back of Ilya's neck, into the softness of his hair. And Ilya is holding him, too, his hands around Shane's waist, sliding upwards, downwards, like he can't decide where he wants to touch most.

A car drives past behind them, the revving of its engine echoing across the street.

Shane pulls away, gasps for air. A journalist? He pictures the images on the front page of the newspaper: Rozanov, Hollander, kissing. He takes a step backwards.

"It's dark, Hollander," Ilya says. "No one can see."

"Fuck," Shane says, and nods, fumbling in his pocket to pull out his phone and order a taxi back to campus. He ignores the text from his mom, congratulating him on the win today. He swallows harshly. The screen is too bright; he blinks, trying to shield his eyes from the way the light pierces through the darkness.

"Okay?" Ilya asks.

"Yep."

"Just for pressure release, okay?" Ilya says.

Shane's breath quickens. He glances back up at Ilya's lips. He thinks about the victory today, the way that the rest of the team is going to enjoy the night.

"Just a pressure release," Shane says.

Ilya pushes Shane back onto his bed when they stumble into the dorm, crowding on top of him and using his legs to cocoon Shane’s hips.

“What do you wanna do,” he murmurs into Shane’s ear.

“Don’t wanna—” Shane whimpers as Ilya kisses up Shane’s neck, “—don’t wanna think. You decide.”

“Hollander,” Ilya groans as he pulls Shane’s jeans and t-shirt off, throwing them onto the floor and kissing down Shane’s chest, his hands running over the muscle.

Shane squirms as Ilya kisses back up his chest and sucks his nipples, pulling one into his mouth and sucking like it's Shane's cock. His teeth graze it, Shane's back arches.

"Fuck," Shane gasps, and Ilya's warm hands are running down his body, pushing his legs up to his chest, telling Shane to hold them open.

"I'll make it good, Hollander," Ilya says. He eats Shane out for what feels like hours. Eventually, through the haze of his pleasure, Shane feels Ilya drag his mouth back up to suck Shane’s cock, pulling it deep into his throat. Shane looks up at the ceiling, gasps, thinks: the care that Ilya has for each part of him—is that what it’s like for those other people Ilya has fucked? Is this what casual sex is like, is it this fucking good, all the time?

Then, worse: maybe it could be even better, if they—if Ilya would push inside him, would fuck him. It’d be good, Shane's sure, now that he's practiced with his dildo. Maybe he could ask Ilya to do it. Maybe Ilya would agree, and they could fuck. Just once, maybe, before the draft; Shane can get a taste before this fantasy land is snatched away. He slides his hand into Ilya's hair and grasps onto him.

"Ilya," he says. He thinks again of his fantasy, of turning to the people that Ilya's fucked and saying: look. Ilya only wants me.

That—that sends a shiver up his spine, freezing, making him jolt, making his lungs constrict like he can't breathe.

Ilya's mouth stops. He looks up at Shane. "Okay?"

"Yeah," Shane says. His eyes feel too wide, and Ilya is curious as he looks at him.

"You're sure?" Ilya brings his hand up to brush over Shane's cheek. Shane exhales, feeling the rough texture of Ilya's hand on his skin. He tilts his face, takes two fingers into his mouth.

He closes his eyes, hears Ilya inhale above him.

When Shane opens his eyes again, Ilya is frozen above him. His body is held taut, his eyes locked on Shane. It's silent, for a moment, as they look at each other.

And then Shane is letting Ilya's fingers fall out of his mouth, saliva-coated and warm. And he's smiling, because Ilya can't see. Ilya can't know.

Afterwards, Ilya's hands are gentle upon Shane with the washcloth. He brushes the cloth over Shane's cock. It twitches limply as Ilya grins down at him.

"Fucking asshole," Shane says, sighing as he lies back against the pillow.

Ilya moves around the room for a few minutes, Shane's gaze lingering on the expanse of his back as he reaches into the mini-fridge. The same shoulders that were thumping people into the boards earlier tonight, making the crowd cheer for him. Ilya moves to sit next to Shane on the bed with his shot glass of vodka, handing him his usual ginger ale. He slides his free hand into Shane’s hair, petting it gently. Shane turns where he’s laying on the bed, pressing his face into Ilya’s leg.

"This better not impact my game," Shane murmurs, feeling the warmth of Ilya's thigh against his forehead and the weight of the duvet where it's draped over him. He sits up, leaning against Ilya’s arm and taking a sip of ginger ale. He doesn't think about his fantasy. Because that's all it was: a fantasy, a dream, where Ilya sees Shane and wants only him. Ha, imagine.

"It won't. Promise."

“Aren’t you scared about people finding out?”

Ilya is still, next to him. “Of course I am,” he says slowly. “But I don’t want to do what everyone wants me to. Russia wants me to a be robot. And I don’t want to be one.”

”I don’t want to be a robot either,” Shane murmurs.

”You’re not a robot,” Ilya says. “A little boring, sure. But not robot.”

Shane snorts. “Thanks.” His eyes begin to droop, and he hears Ilya let out a huff of laughter next to him, reaching out to take the can of ginger ale from his hand.

It's a matter of seconds as Shane’s eyes fall shut, his head coming to rest on Ilya’s shoulder.

Soon the team is travelling to Chicago to start the regional round of the NCAA championship, Shane and Ilya forced to share a room again in the hotel. Shane’s phone rings with a call from Rose as he’s unpacking his stuff into the closet in his usual colour-coded sub-sections.

He turns to sit back down on his bed, shooting a disapproving glare at Ilya’s unpacked suitcase.

“Hi, Rose,” Shane smiles as he picks up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane sees Ilya sit up straight on his bed, turning to look at Shane across the room. He looks kind of funny, with his eyebrows contorted like that, Shane thinks.

“Hi,” she replies. “Is now a good time to catch up? How’s the room and everything?”

“Now’s good. I’ve got my roommate here, though, sorry. But it’s fine to talk.”

“Rozanov?”

“Yeah,” Shane says as he sits back on his bed, his back against the headboard and the phone against his ear. He glances briefly at Ilya before he speaks. “Actually I—um, wanted to apologise for something.”

“Okay,” she answers hesitantly.

“So, um—at the bar last week, the guys were hounding me about finding a girl to sleep with like always, and I—told them that we were dating to get them off my back. The next day I told them we broke up, but—yeah, sorry. I lied.”

There’s a moment of silence before Rose answers. “Thanks for apologising Shane. I mean, I’d rather you didn’t lie, but I’m sure you had your reasons. As long as it’s a one-off, you’re all good.”

“Thanks, Rose,” Shane breathes, a pressure lifting from his chest. He hates lying, it feels wrong and scary and he never lies to anyone if he can help it. But that room had been so stifling, their gazes weighing down upon him with so much pressure that he couldn’t help it.

“If you really need to, I don’t mind if you need to pull that card again. I’m not planning on a relationship any time soon, so if you need a cover every so often it won’t bother me,” Rose says.

Shane’s eyes widen as he listens. That could—that could get them off his backs, get them to stop looking at Shane like he’s some odd specimen of a man because he doesn’t approach women. He inhales sharply as he thinks of the freedom that he could have, the excuses that he wouldn’t have to think of—

Shane glances across at Ilya. His gaze is sharp, trained upon Shane, his face unreadable.

Shane pauses, glancing back down into his lap.

“Shane?” Rose's voice comes through the phone.

“Oh—sorry. Can I think about it? I just—I don’t know. I feel bad for lying.”

It’s nothing to do with Ilya, Shane tells himself. Nothing to do with the way that Ilya had withdrawn into himself, his face a blank mask, that night after Shane had kissed Rose in the club. Nothing to do with the fact that Ilya hadn’t slept with Svetlana, had gone home and smoked with that blank expression on his face, the one that Shane knows means that something is going on under the surface.

“Okay,” she says. “You sound happier than before. More confident. I like it.” Shane can hear her smile through the phone. “How’s your eating going, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Shane tenses up, his hand tightly gripping the phone. He wants to offer some kind of guarded response, to sprint away from the topic as fast as possible. Everyone cares so much about how Shane eats, about his rules and his diets and everything they think is wrong with him.

But this is Rose, his friend purely for the sake of friendship. Not because they play hockey together, just because they like each other.

Maybe—maybe it’s fine for her to ask, sometimes. Is that what a friend would do? Shane supposes that it is.

“It’s—better,” Shane says.

“That’s great,” she says softly.

Their conversation flows onto Rose’s first ever acting project she’s got lined up, to how her classes are going and if their biology professor is as boring as he always is.

When Shane finally hangs up, Ilya doesn’t wait for a second before he’s crawling across onto Shane’s bed, pushing him down onto the pillows as he takes the phone out of Shane’s hand and puts it on the nightstand.

”That was Rose Landry?”

“What—uh, yes,” Shane starts, as Ilya pulls down Shane’s sweatpants and boxers and takes Shane’s cock into his mouth. “Fuck, okay,” Shane breathes, his hand sliding into Ilya’s hair.

On media day just before the tournament starts Shane and Ilya are told to head to the rink to film a commercial. They sit in the taxi side-by-side, discussing their tactics for tomorrow in hushed voices.

“This shouldn’t take too long,” the director says after he’s set them up to do a face-off on the ice.

Shane glances up at Ilya across from him. His features are illuminated by the blue artificial light, the elegant line of his lips and the sweep of his blond eyelashes close enough to touch.

“Look into each other’s eyes for me,” the director calls. “Perfect. Hold that pose.” The camera clicks as Shane traces over the deep blue of Ilya’s eyes. They’re pretty, Ilya’s eyes.

The thought occurs to Shane of how much those eyes have seen of him. They know the tremble of Shane’s hands as he eats and the racing of his heart before they step onto the ice. They know when Shane likes to go to bed, when he likes to go to the gym, when he wants to be alone.

They even know what Shane looks like when he’s consumed by pleasure, they know how he looks when he’s so desperate for something he can’t even think, when he starts whining in that embarrassing way that he knows Ilya secretly finds funny.

Ilya's eyes know Shane more intimately than anything in the whole world. Ilya knows him more intimately than anyone in the whole world.

The air of the arena is suddenly freezing on Shane's skin.

Why does it have to be Ilya fucking Rozanov who knows all that? It really couldn't be anyone worse.

Rozanov always knew how to get under Shane's skin.

His hands tighten around his stick as he keeps his eyes fixed on Ilya's.

Shane's mind is drawn to the draft night: the night when the call of a name will solidify their separation. The thought is enough that Shane has to look away from Ilya's eyes for a moment.

“Sorry, Shane, just look back up into Ilya's eyes for a few more seconds,” the director says, his voice loud and echoing across the ice. “I know staring each other down can’t exactly be fun.”

Shane lifts his eyes reluctantly; Ilya's eyes are on his. Shane swallows. There's a sudden, nauseating fear rising up within him. It's irrational, Shane knows it, but he feels as if every desire that's hidden deep inside of himself has risen to the surface and is written in his eyes. Time slows; Shane is stuck. He wonders if Ilya can see just how much he wants to grasp onto Ilya and stop him from leaving.

Ilya voice seems to come out of nowhere. “You look pretty,” he whispers.

Shane swallows. The clicks of the camera are suddenly deafening in his ears. “You’re wearing makeup too,” he replies. His voice is hardly a whisper.

“Yeah, but I don’t look pretty,” Ilya whispers back.

The changing room is deserted after the shoot, reserved just for them. The silence crowds into Shane's ears as he pulls off his kit, makes him rush as he heads for the showers.

Ilya joins him moments later, his eyes roaming over Shane's body, as unashamed as they always are. It makes Shane frown and dunk his head under the stream, shampoo flowing into his eyes and making them sting.

"You don't like the camera?" Ilya's voice comes out of nowhere. "You looked like there was a gun pointing at your head."

"The camera's fine," Shane mutters, keeping his body facing the wall. He can feel Ilya's eyes on his back. "I'm just not good at all the press stuff."

"I never said that," Ilya murmurs. Shane can hear from his voice that he's moved closer. "The journalists like you."

"No they don't," Shane scoffs, brushing a soapy hand over his pecs. His nipples harden at the touch. He swallows harshly.

"They do. Do you wanna know what a journalist told me, once?"

"What." Shane turns his body to face Ilya. He's close enough to touch. Shane can't help but let his eyes glance downwards. Ilya's dick as big as it always is, his body as muscular as Shane knows it is.

"She told me you're the hottest hockey player she's ever seen. She wouldn't stop talking about you."

"Yeah, right," Shane says, turning back towards the wall, his cheeks reddening.

"It's true. I met her at a bar at World Juniors." Ilya's hand reaches out to grasp Shane's arm, turning him back to face Ilya. "She was obsessed. I wouldn't lie about that; it was annoying as fuck. I was trying to fuck her and she wouldn't stop talking about Shane fucking Hollander."

Shane can't help but smile at that. He annoys Ilya too, huh. So much that Ilya still remembers the interaction with the journalist. It feels like a small victory as his eyes meet Ilya's for a beat, then two, Ilya's hand still on his arm. And then Ilya steps backwards, moving under a shower-head.

Shane can't help but let his eyes rake over the curve of Ilya’s ass, over the muscles of his broad back. They're strong and defined under his skin, rippling as he runs the soap over his chest. Shane wants to put his mouth on them. He wants to run his lips over every part of Ilya, to map out his body by touch alone.

Ilya's eyes glance towards Shane. He looks away, then back again.

“Like before?" Shane asks. He doesn't even know where the words come from.

Ilya's head snaps round. He takes a step towards Shane. "You're sure?"

Shane nods as he looks at Ilya, his eyes wide. He runs his hand down his own chest, down to his cock to stroke it once, slowly. They watch each other with their lips parted and their breaths heavy.

Their strokes get faster, their eyes tracing over one another, and Shane can’t help but take a step towards Ilya, Ilya taking one in return until they’re within touching distance.

“Come here,” Ilya murmurs at last, and Shane is striding forwards, Ilya pushing him against the wall as their lips crash together in a desperate, breathless kiss.

This is what Shane fucking needs, what he’s been waiting for since that time at the hotel.

He runs his hands up Ilya’s back and over his neck, holding him close as Ilya cants his hips forwards into Shane, their cocks rutting together for a moment. Shane gasps into Ilya’s mouth, trying to press his cock back against Ilya’s. Instead, he’s met by a broad thigh, pressing against Shane with the firm muscle that lies underneath in a wave of shivering pleasure.

Shane tips his head back, moaning as Ilya grinds his thigh into Shane. Shane jolts his hips against it, just once, just to feel it. He can hardly hold himself back, wants to fuck and grind against Ilya’s thigh with animalistic desperation and with their mouths locked together.

“Do it, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s ear, kissing the spot just behind it as he presses his thigh more firmly between Shane’s legs.

“Fuck, Rozanov, fuck,” Shane whines, letting himself rut against Ilya with a rough drag of his cock, the muscle of Ilya’s thigh beneath him and his hands clasping Ilya’s back. Low sounds of pleasure escape Shane’s mouth, his only focus the drag of his cock against Ilya’s thigh and the grasp of Ilya’s hands on his waist.

When he nears his orgasm, he pulls Ilya down into a kiss once more, his mind consumed by the pleasure coursing through it and a moan escaping his mouth as cum splatters across Ilya’s thigh.

“Fuck,” he moans as he tips his head back against the shower wall. Ilya’s cock is hard in front of him, red and curved upwards. Ilya’s—Ilya’s fucking desperate, desperate just from feeling Shane fuck against his thigh. Fuck.

Shane takes one breath, then two, his eyes fixed on the cum on Ilya’s leg.

He drops to his knees in front of Ilya, the floor cold and hard underneath him. He leans forwards, and begins to lick and suck his cum off Ilya’s thigh.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya moans above him, his hand sliding into Shane’s hair with a faint tremor, his voice low and raw.

When they walk back into the changing room a few minutes later, Shane’s cheeks are red there’s a dazed smile upon Ilya’s face. He pushes Shane against the wall of the changing room whilst they’re still in their towels.

“You’re kind of a slut, hmm, Hollander?” He grins. “So fucking hot, fucking sexy.” Ilya grasps Shane’s chin, bringing it towards him as he plants a kiss on Shane’s lips. Shane ducks his head with a self-conscious smile as he begins to get changed.

The changing room is silent for a moment, before a thought occurs to Shane. "Do you—um—fuck women like that journalist often?" he asks.

Ilya turns to look at Shane. "Sometimes. When I was bored at World Juniors, yes. Now, no." A smirk grows on his face, his eyes glittering. "Now I have other stuff that keeps me busy. My captain works me hard."

Shane grins back at Ilya before he resumes getting changed. He can't help but wonder how long it'll take Ilya to return to women like that journalist. Nice women. Women who aren't rivals that would put his career on the line if anything was exposed.

“We won’t be doing this next year,” Shane says as he sits in his bed once they’re back at the hotel. “We’ll be on different teams.”

Ilya doesn't say anything, just looks down that the mattress, so Shane picks up his phone to check his messages. He scrolls through them, not reading a single one.

Shane's eyes wander to the top of his phone. Four months until the draft.

The weight of the world will come crashing down, at some point, and Shane will have to stop all this stuff with Ilya. Until that point, until the draft, Shane is on borrowed time. And he's going to make fucking use of it.

“Can you—would you fuck me, before the summer?” He asks, the words blurted out as he looks across at Ilya, his eyes wide.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya breathes, taking a step towards Shane’s bed. “I’ll fuck you. Now?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “After the tournament. I’m not gonna do…” Shane clears his throat. “...anal during the tournament, obviously. Only afterwards. We could do other stuff though.” Shane pauses for a moment. “And, um—it might be my last time with a man, at least until I retire. My last time with anyone, I guess.”

“Are you becoming monk, Hollander?” Ilya grins as he approaches Shane’s bed. “There are men in every city who want to fuck a pretty guy like you.” As he speaks, Ilya's grin seems to melt off his face, replaced by a blank expression.

Shane blushes. “I could only do shit with strangers, though, if I don’t want people to find out.” He glances down at his hands in his lap. "And still, it’s risky. But that’s just the price of hockey, I guess.”

Maybe—maybe Shane and Ilya could fuck, sometimes, during the season. Shane wants to laugh out loud at the suggestion. How would they even coordinate it? Would Ilya even want that?

Casual doesn't make an effort like that. Casual would give up at the first sign of difficulty, right?

Anyway, Shane thinks, casual doesn't even exist between professional hockey players.

But he can get Ilya to fuck him, and maybe that can be enough.

Ilya stands over Shane’s bed, his eyes roaming over his body. “I’ll make it good for you, Hollander, when I fuck you,” he says, kneeling on the bed and leaning over him. “I’ll show you how fucking good it can be.”

“Just until the summer?” Shane asks, his voice a whisper.

“Just until the summer,” Ilya agrees, pushing Shane down against the bed and pulling off his shirt.

Chapter End Notes

NCAA championship up next!

Just realised that I’ve been calling the men’s pro hockey league the NHL not MLH oops. I’ll go back and change it!

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

From this chapter onwards the d/s undertone is a bit stronger, not really in terms of the sex acts but more in terms of Shane exploring being kinda submissive during sex. Just thought I should mention it and if anyone thinks I should change the light d/s tag to full d/s then feel free to let me know.

Their first game of the championship is against Quinnipiac. When the puck rattles into the goal for the fourth time that night, off Ilya’s stick, the buzzer to signal the end of the game booms through the arena. The team leaps off the bench, throwing their helmets and sticks into the air with raucous cheers, embracing Shane into the hoard of players. He can't help but glance towards the Quinnipiac players. Their heads are bowed, some sitting down on the ice, refusing to meet the eyes of their teammates: their chance of making the next round snatched from under them.

Shane offers smiling congratulations to each of his teammates, getting claps on the back in return. He makes a show of it, congratulating his own teammates, exchanging a word with Quinnipiac's captain. The scouts will be watching everything—leadership, competitiveness, how well Shane works with his team. He knows they’re there, in the stands, scribbling down notes. Notes that will define his future, he reminds himself with a shaky exhale.

In the hotel, after the win, Shane should be preparing for the next round of regionals. Instead, he lets Ilya push him back onto his bed, running his hands underneath Shane’s shirt and over his abs. It’s a gentle caress, one that lasts for hours as Ilya works Shane up to the brink, holding him there before he returns to some other part of Shane. Ilya continues tracing his hands over Shane when they’ve both come, when they’re lying on Shane’s bed with come across their chests and their breath coming in pants.

Shane’s hands reach out to Ilya in return. With curious touches he traces over Ilya’s sides, up his arms and across his collar bones, over the small tattoo of a bear on his chest that he's always wanted to ask about, over the muscle and the breadth of Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya is built for hockey, built just in the way that scouts love.

Their hands are still touching each other as they sink into sleep that night.

The next game comes soon after, against Penn State. The first goal is early on in the first period, a deflection off Ilya’s stick into the goal. But Penn State’s defence is strong, Shane huffing out a breath of frustration as each of BU’s next attempts are snatched into the hand of the goaltender.

When the equaliser comes, it’s unexpected, a desperate slapshot by a Penn State defenseman from far out. It thumps into the BU goalie’s pad, falls to the ice, glides into the goal. The arena erupts in cheer; BU plays harder, more furiously, their skates crackling across the ice and sweat dripping into their eyes. Each attempt at the goal gets closer and closer to hitting the back of the net until the buzzer signals the end of regular time.

A jolt of panic runs through Shane as overtime begins. The play is sloppy, desperate, shots careening past the goal and slamming into the boards; time blurs, Shane only hearing his own panting breath, until the buzzer cuts through his thoughts, signalling the end of overtime.

Shane glances up at screen. The red writing flickers, for a moment, then switches to the shootout board. The crowd falls into a hush; the scouts take out their notepads, lean forwards in their seats.

The arena is still as Shane waits for the most important shoot-out of his life.

He looks down at the ice. His grip tightens on his stick. He exhales slowly, and the shootout begins.

The first two shots of the shoot-out miss, a crumbling sigh rippling through the crowd.

"Hollander," Coach Murphy says. Shane doesn't need to look at him to know what he expects.

The crowd's eyes follow Shane as he approaches the puck, his skates crackling along the ice. He takes it onto his stick, feels the weight of it like it's an extension of himself as he drives towards the goal; the crowd melts away, his breath the only sound as he brings the puck left, then right, snapping it back left again. In one sharp exhale it's careening upwards, towards the goal.

And the goalie’s blocker is there. The puck deflects with a hollow noise, slides back across the ice.

The arena is silent as Shane stands.

He skates back to the bench, his head bowed. His ears begin to ring, drowning out the murmured commiserations of his teammates.

Shane looks up at Coach. He's not looking at Shane. Instead, his eyes are on the ice, a frown carved into his forehead, his lips held in a fixed line.

The bench keeps their eyes on the next Penn State attempt. Only Ilya's eyes are on Shane, where he's sat at the end of the bench. "Unlucky," he murmurs as Shane pushes past.

Fuck off, Shane wants to say. Look away, like everyone else. Stop pretending.

Shane keeps his eyes on the ground. The scouts will be watching someone else, now. The team will be relying on someone else. Shane missed his chance.

Shane's chest tightens. He zeroes in on the puck being brought towards the goal by the third and final Penn State player.

A strange sense of resignation washes over him, suddenly. He didn't score. He wasn’t good enough. That’s it.

The Penn State player’s shot deflects off the post, the players groaning. Ilya stands, steps onto the ice, heads towards the waiting puck. A single goal by Ilya is now enough to win the game.

Ilya starts slowly—leisurely, almost, bringing the puck towards the boards and then back near the goal; his face is serene, like this is a drill in practice. He bursts into speed, the puck fast and sharp on his stick as he positions himself; he snaps a shot forwards, it flies towards the goal.

And slots into the upper-right corner. The stadium roars, the bench clears as the BU players fling their helmets and sticks into the air, their shouts echoing across the ice. Shane remains still for a moment. Then he follows his team off the bench, pulls his face into a smile, skates into the hug.

It’s good. They won, of course it’s good. But the confidence of Ilya’s shot is burnt into his mind. It’s a confidence that scouts love, a confidence that confirms that Ilya is the leader on the team, that Ilya can perform under pressure.

Shane looks back at his coach. He's making his way onto the ice, and his eyes are wide, jubilant, focussed on one person only. Ilya Rozanov.

Shane plasters a smile across his face as he feels his chances in the draft begin to slip away from him.

Well done today, Yuna texts him when they're in the elevator, without her usual breakdown of the game.

"Get to bed early," Coach says when he steps out of the elevator. "Minnesota is soon. No messing around."

He still hasn't looked at Shane. The team nods, their chatter filling the corridor as they head to their rooms. Shane looks at the pattern on the carpet beneath him as he heads for his room: it's a swirling mess of lines that makes him a little dizzy as he walks.

“Why are you being pissy?” Ilya asks as he shuts the door of their hotel room. “You have a win, you have me for sex. What else do you need?”

“I’m not being pissy.” Shane mutters as he sits on his bed.

“Yes you are,” Ilya says, standing over Shane with his hands on his hips. “You’re bad liar, Shane Hollander.”

“I missed my shot in the shootout. Of course I’m gonna be mad,” Shane grumbles as he pushes himself back on his bed away from Ilya.

“But the team won, Hollander.” Ilya smirks as he gets onto Shane’s bed, crawling up to where he’s sat against the headboard. “And I scored. Twice.”

“I know,” Shane huffs as he turns his head to the side, picking up a corner of the duvet and fiddling with it as Ilya watches him.

“What’s wrong then? I wanna have sex, Hollander,” Ilya whines as he crawls further towards Shane, grasping his chin so that he’s forced to look up at him.

“Nothing,” Shane says, his lips pouting ever so slightly. There’s a moment of silence as Ilya studies his face before he releases his hold on Shane’s chin. He moves back on the bed, leaning back on his hands as he continues to watch Shane.

Shane lifts his leg up to massage his calf, digging his thumb into it until he feels the aching tension begin to give under the pressure. He thinks about Ilya’s goal again, about the goals that Ilya’s got so far this season. He thinks about Ilya playing centre and Shane playing wing. He thinks about Ilya’s performance tonight, his magnetic confidence in front of the scouts when it mattered most.

He thinks about the fact that Ilya has all of those qualities and that Shane has none of them.

He thinks about the dream he’s had since he was seven and practicing with a puck in his back garden, his mom smiling, telling him to shoot as she watched him skate across the rink, his dad taking photos of their superstar.

He thinks about the call of a name on draft night that won’t be his.

Shane sits against the pillows in silence for a moment as his eyes lift to trace over Ilya. The man who will take first overall away from him, and yet the man he wants more than anything.

“You know you’re gonna go first overall, right?” Shane whispers. He stares down at the blanket as he speaks, the words like splinters in his throat.

Silence hangs between them.

"You don't know that," Ilya murmurs.

"I do." Shane's voice is hardly above a whisper.

Ilya has always been BU's superstar centre. He's always scored the goals, the flashy ones, the ones that make the highlight reels. He's always put on a show, drawing the eyes of the scouts with some invisible magnetism. It's the same magnetism that makes Shane unable to pull himself away from Ilya, that makes him want to hold onto Ilya forever and ever and not let him leave.

And it's going to make Ilya first overall. And put Shane in second place, like always.

Shane Hollander: golden boy, almost. But not really. Not quite.

“Shane,” Ilya says. “Come here.”

“No.” Shane’s voice is hoarse as he looks down at the white of the duvet. It’s good quality, he thinks. When he buys his own home he should buy a duvet like this.

“Shane,” Ilya repeats, and at last Shane looks up at Ilya. He’s sat across the bed with his legs curled to the side of him, still wearing his suit shirt.

Ilya’s eyes are full of something gentle as he looks at Shane. Shane wants to go over there, to feel Ilya’s embrace around him and to make Ilya stop looking at him like that, looking at Shane like he means something to Ilya.

“Come here, Shane,” Ilya repeats, and Shane can’t hold himself back. He moves forwards, his arms circling round Ilya’s neck as he’s pulled forwards to straddle Ilya’s lap, tucking his head into the nape of his neck.

Shane wants to laugh at the prospect of being comforted by the very man who is taking his dream from him, the dream he’s fought his entire life for. He hates this. He hates being in Ilya's arms, he tells himself. But instead, he tucks himself further into Ilya, into the warmth of his body.

Ilya rocks them slowly, back and forth, the heavy silence between them softening into something melancholy as Ilya’s hand slides up Shane’s back, rubbing gently over the fabric of Shane’s shirt. Shane wants to take it off, to feel Ilya’s hands against his bare skin and to press closer and closer, closer than physics allows.

"My mom will be so upset," Shane says. He looks across the room at the TV. In the reflection, his and Ilya's bodies are tangled together. The top two projected picks for the draft: it makes Shane want to laugh, to see the shock on people's faces if they knew. He wonders what his mom would be more upset about: Shane with Ilya Rozanov, or Shane losing out on first in the draft? Although, Shane supposes, upset isn't the right word. Yuna would be confused, rather, why her plan didn't work. She'd ask where her Shane was, the one who follows the rules, who achieves.

"She should be proud," Ilya says.

Shane sits back. "She is proud," he says, his voice soft. "Just—in her own way. She loves me."

Ilya doesn't say anything. And then he lifts a hand to stroke through Shane's hair. And then: "My father won't care, if I go first."

Shane's eyes snap up. "Why?"

Ilya shrugs. “He's a bad man.”

“What about your mother?”

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers, pulling back from Ilya’s arms to look at his face. His eyes are looking into the distance, flicking with tiny movements from side to side, as if he's trying to focus on something but can't.

“Is okay. Long time ago.” Ilya’s voice is hoarse, quiet as if the words hurt to say. He turns his head away from Shane, his jaw tight. "I didn't mean to bring that up."

"It's okay."

Shane places a hand on Ilya’s face. His cheek is warm beneath his palm; there's a faint quiver to his lips. His eyes are glassy under the golden light of the lamp. "I don't even know why I'm—" Ilya starts. His mouth is held in a line.

“Ilya,” Shane whispers.

Ilya’s jaw twitches, held tight as he looks down at the bed, his eyes refusing to meet Shane’s.

A beat of silence passes, then two, as Ilya’s jaw twitches again. His mouth wobbles, once, the movement so subtle Shane almost second guesses it.

“It doesn’t matter—” Ilya begins, but the words are breaking, cracking before he’s even got them out. Shane pulls Ilya into him, Ilya’s head burrowing into Shane as their arms pull tighter around each other. They clasp each other tighter and tighter until Shane leans down, bringing his lips to Ilya’s in a desperate, clumsy kiss.

"You're first person I told, here," Ilya whispers to Shane before he presses his lips back onto Shane's.

Shane doesn't know what to do with the information, how to understand and react and tell Ilya it's okay. So he just pulls Ilya back against his bed, lets Ilya lie on his chest. The weight of him there calms something within Shane; the weight of the whole world on his chest replaced by the pressure of Ilya’s body.

The room is silent around them, as if the world has melted away and they're finally alone, together, at peace. For a moment, Shane lets himself believe it.

His eyes linger on the top of Ilya’s head as he falls asleep, moving his hand down to brush through Ilya's curls. They're soft, almost boyish. A world away from the brash, confident Rozanov that he projects to the world.

There, with the weight of Ilya's body on his chest, Shane thinks about the things that Ilya has lost and the dream that he’s going to take from Shane.

The following day, Shane comes down to the lobby of the hotel to see his parents waiting there for him with matching smiles on their faces.

“Shane,” they say as he embraces them. There’s something painful caught in his throat as he holds them tight.

“How was the journey down?” Shane asks as they head towards the restaurant. He tucks the memories of last night in a corner of his mind, fills it with thoughts of the game tomorrow instead. Simple, easy things.

Yuna and David tell him about their flight down from Canada, asking him about the tournament so far and the next game tomorrow against Minnesota.

“Who’s your roommate for the trip?” Yuna asks as she examines the menu in the restaurant, even though Shane knows that she’s going to order the same thing she always does. She’s a creature of habit, the same way that Shane is.

“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane replies.

“They put you with Rozanov? That’s…an interesting choice, certainly.” Yuna says, looking across the table at Shane. “Was that your coach’s decision?”

“Yeah.”

“He sounds like an interesting man, your coach. I’d like to know why he thought putting two competing boys in a room together would be a good idea. Don’t let anything he does get to you, okay?”

“It’s fine, mom,” Shane replies, his eyes scanning the menu. They have fish and rice, his normal order. But Shane’s eyes flick to the pasta on the menu, his mouth watering.

“Are you getting the usual, honey?” Yuna asks. “Salmon and rice?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Shane says, pausing for a moment. “Actually, the pasta looks kinda good too. I dunno.”

“How about we get both?” David asks, looking up from where he’s been struggling to read the menu, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “You’re a growing boy, Shane, and we can always share any extra.”

“You’ll need lots of carbs before the semi-final tomorrow, too,” Yuna adds.

“Okay,” Shane nods.

“Well done on your grades by the way, Shane. Straight A’s, as usual,” David grins.

“Yes, great work, Shane,” Yuna agrees. “By the way, Bauer is interested in another collaboration, if you’d be up for that. Filming would be over the summer, so it wouldn’t place too much pressure on your hockey. How does that sound?”

Shane takes a sip of his water. “Yeah. I can do that,” he replies after a moment.

“Sorry, Shane, we don’t mean to keep talking about hockey,” David smiles, placing a hand gently on Yuna’s arm. “I’m sure it’s the last thing you want to talk to us about right now. How are your friends at college doing?”

Shane tells them about Hayden and his new girlfriend he’s obsessed with, about Rose and their weekly coffee meetups. As he talks, his mind returns to his conversation with Ilya last night. He wonders whether Ilya would like his parents, if they’d get along. Whether his parents would like Ilya.

He’s sure that Ilya would laugh with them, would call them boring like he does with Shane whilst smiling secretly to himself. He thinks that they would like Ilya too, if they could see beneath that layer of brash confidence.

He thinks of Ilya sitting alone in their hotel room right now. Of Ilya’s father, and what he must have done to Ilya for tears to fill Ilya’s eyes like that. Of Ilya’s mother, and whether she would have liked Shane.

If things were different, maybe Ilya could be sitting here next to Shane instead of sitting alone in the hotel room.

But things aren’t different, Shane tells himself, and soon things will be over with Ilya.

Soon they’ll just be rivals who used to share a room.

The next game is the semi-final against Minnesota. Shane follows his pre-game rituals with his usual precision: he takes his ninety-minute pre-game nap, making his bed before he and Ilya head to the team bus. He eats his chicken and rice three hours before warmups, and does stretches with the physio one hour before. Thirty minutes before he meditates, visualising the game.

Shane has one additional ritual, though. In the changing room, after the pre-game speeches, he approaches Ilya for their chest-bump. Shane offers a grin to Ilya as they head for the tunnel, Ilya waiting behind Shane as the chill of the arena seeps into Shane’s skin, his breathing level and his gaze forwards before he leads the team onto the ice.

The tempo of the game is unforgiving, the defensemen tight upon Shane and Ilya. When the first goal comes, it’s for Minnesota, the fans roaring as the puck is snapped past the goaltender.

The next goal is BU’s, with Ilya scoring off a blistering pass from Shane across the ice.

The team barely celebrates as they return to the bench, the next line already setting up for a face-off. They score again hardly two minutes later, a redirection off a shot from Hayden. Shane and Ilya’s line returns to the ice, and this time Shane scores with a wrist-shot from the dot.

For a moment, he thinks the shot will miss the goal, will soar past the goalkeeper and the crowd will gasp at his miss. But the puck finds the net and the goal horn sounds, Shane exhaling slowly as he hugs his teammates.

In the end, the score is 5-3, Ilya and Shane each getting two goals.

The team sings and chants in the changing room afterwards, their place in the final guaranteed and a grin on Shane’s face.

When Shane and Ilya return to the hotel, they’re both keyed-up, fidgeting with the adrenaline still coursing through them as they stand in the elevator. They keep their eyes in front of them as their teammates get off on the floor below, the rest of them emptying onto the same floor as Shane and Ilya.

Shane forces himself to walk steadily to the hotel door as the adrenaline in him develops into a burning desperation. He wants his hands on Ilya, wants to touch every part of him. Wants Ilya to take control so that he can bask in the thrill of the win, in the fact that they will be playing in the final in a matter of days.

Ilya closes the door behind them as they step into the hotel room, and Shane pushes Ilya back against the door before it’s fully closed. He drops to his knees, nuzzling into the front of Ilya’s dress pants and feeling his cock hardening beneath.

Ilya’s hand slides into Shane’s hair, grasping it gently as Shane pulls down Ilya’s pants and boxers, taking Ilya’s cock into his mouth. He laves his tongue around the tip before sinking down, taking most of it into his mouth as he breathes carefully through his nose.

He wants to show Ilya how much he’s improved since that first day when he did this, how much he wants to please Ilya and show him how good he can be. Shane glances up through his eyelashes to Ilya’s face—it’s tipped back in pleasure, his lips parted and his eyes shut.

He lets Ilya’s cock sit in his mouth for a moment as he reaches the deepest he’s ever gone; he wants to gag, but holds himself back like he’s taught himself after all these months. It feels good, more than good, in some fucked-up way, to show Ilya that he can do that.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya murmurs as he runs his hand through Shane’s hair. “You’ve got so good at this, huh? Can take so much of my cock.”

Shane whines around Ilya as he looks up again. He feels the gentle hand in his hair and Ilya’s gaze upon him.

Shane pulls off Ilya’s cock, saying: “Can you fuck my mouth?” His voice is hoarse already. This position is—it’s fucking submissive, Shane thinks. It sends a burst of some foreign sensation through Shane’s stomach; it’s fearful, almost, like butterflies when he’s nervous. Like when he steps out onto the ice, when he puts himself in the hands of his team and just feels the puck on his stick.

“Fuck, Shane, yes. You’re sure? You’re—you’re so fucking good for me, fucking perfect. Tap my leg if you want to stop.”

Shane nods from beneath Ilya, his hands on Ilya’s thighs.

“How are you gonna stop me, Hollander?”

“Tap your leg,” Shane whispers. He slides a hand down to palm himself through his sweatpants.

Ilya’s hand slides back into his hair, a firmer touch than before. He pushes into Shane’s mouth before he begins to fuck slowly in and out. Soft, breathless noises escape Ilya’s mouth; his eyes are still focussed on Shane.

Ilya is watching, seeing, understanding Shane. The thought makes Shane's throat tense, makes his hands rise up and grip onto Ilya's thighs like an anchor. Ilya sees him; Shane sees Ilya. Shane closes his eyes, sinking into the sensation of Ilya surrounding him, Ilya inside of him.

Time begins to slip away, and he’s vaguely aware of Ilya coming down his throat, of the way that he sucks Ilya down even when he begins to soften. He knows Ilya has got him, though, will keep him safe.

He hears Ilya murmur his name before he’s being lifted over to his bed, snuggling with Ilya beneath the covers as he rests his head on Ilya’s chest, listening to the muffled beating of his heart.

“You okay?” Ilya murmurs as he strokes a hand through Shane’s hair.

“Yeah,” Shane replies as he slides his hand onto Ilya’s stomach. “It was kinda intense. But good. Really good,” he smiles softly, and before he knows it he’s drifting off to sleep, Ilya's body warm next to his.

Chapter 11

Shane wakes on the day of the final with his arms wrapped around Ilya and his face pressed between Ilya’s pecs. He pulls back to watch Ilya’s chest rise and fall in front of him, his breathing deep with sleep and his arm draped over Shane.

It must be early, he thinks, as the first rays of light glimmer behind the curtain. It’ll be a while until his seven a.m. alarm goes off. The one he’d set before the most important day of his life.

There’s some strange calmness within him that hasn’t abated since the quarter-final. His heart isn’t racing at the prospect of the game, nor at the fact that he went to sleep half an hour after his scheduled time because he was kissing Ilya as they lay together in bed.

Shane knows that the team can beat Denver today. And if they don’t, it might not feel like his whole world is crashing down around him. It might not feel like the sting of his mother's hand on his cheek, anymore. It might just feel like a loss in the biggest game of Shane's life. And that’s it.

He leans forward to nestle into the warmth of Ilya’s chest as his eyes fall shut once more.

When Shane wakes up for the second time, Ilya is sat up and looking through his texts on his phone, Shane's head resting against his thigh. He reaches down to stroke a hand over Shane's hair as his eyes blink open.

“Gonna win final today, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, handing him glass of water from the nightstand. Shane sits up against the pillows, drinking three quarters of the glass in one go as he does each morning.

“You don’t know that.”

Ilya shrugs, climbing out of the bed and rummaging through his suitcase for something to wear to breakfast. Shane watches as he walks over to the closet.

“I’ve got no clean t-shirts, Hollander,” Ilya says. “Lend me top, please.” He looks back at Shane, his eyes wide and his lips held in a dramatic pout.

“Yeah, fine,” Shane mutters, sliding further under the duvet.

Ilya walks over to the closet, pushing aside some of the tops Shane has folded there and rifling around whilst Shane leans over to reach into the drawer of his nightstand and retrieve his multi-vitamins—

And suddenly Ilya is leaping onto the bed towards Shane, a grin on his face and a t-shirt in hand.

“Shane Hollander,” he smirks as he lifts up the t-shirt. It’s grey and soft, an Adidas logo in lurid neon yellow across the front.

It’s that top that belongs to Ilya, the one that Shane had put on as he left Ilya’s room in the hotel at World Juniors.

He doesn’t even wear it, really. It’s just—a good-luck charm, or whatever. He doesn’t even know when it happened.

Shane flushes, reaching out a hand to try and grab it from Ilya. “It’s nothing,” he mumbles, turning his face away from Ilya.

“It’s not nothing, Hollander. It’s my t-shirt. Do you wear it? Did you jerk off in it? I bet you did—”

“When would I have even done that?” Shane blushes, “I share a room with you, asshole.” But he can’t help it as a smile tugs at his mouth, Ilya grinning at him as he continues to hold the top up.

"It's all polyester anyway. It's not even good quality," Shane huffs.

"Why d'you have it, then?" Ilya's voice is teasing, his hand still holding the t-shirt high in the air.

"To remind me of your awful fashion sense. Give it back.” Shane says, launching himself towards Ilya and making a grab at the top. He laughs as Ilya pushes him down on the bed, his weight encasing Shane as they roll to one side, their hands grappling and their legs intertwining.

Shane stops for a moment as Ilya cages him between his legs. He goes limp, Ilya looking down in surprise, before he winds his legs round Ilya’s middle and rolls them back over, bursting out in laughter at the surprise on Ilya's face.

Ilya grins back in return; Shane can see his eyes tracing over Shane's face, taking in every detail. "I don't have bad fashion sense," he says, and reaches up to press a kiss to Shane's neck. "It's better than yours."

"Yeah, right." Shane wraps his legs around Ilya, tugs him close with panting breath. He feels as if a trance has seized him, as if he and Ilya are floating in some liminal space before the real world returns.

Their laughter quietens. Ilya holds the t-shirt out to Shane. “You should wear it to breakfast,” he says.

Shane thinks about his pre-game routine, about his rituals and his rules before the final. An item of clothing isn’t going to change any of that, he tells himself. Even if the lurid yellow of the slogan is hideous. And anyway—the thought of wearing something that belongs to Ilya—it gives Shane a funny, fluttering feeling in his stomach.

“Okay,” he nods, looking at Ilya for a beat before he sits up, pulling his t-shirt off and replacing it with the Adidas one. It'll be a mark of Ilya upon him that no one else can see. The thought makes a hot rush run up Shane's spine.

A blush stays on his cheeks as he brushes his teeth, stares at himself in the mirror wearing the top. The thin grey fabric hugs his chest and drapes down loosely, the material worn and the colour fading. It smells like Ilya, too, with a faint musk and a dusting of cigarette smoke.

Shane had only worn it once, at World Juniors, the night before the final. He was alone in his room, his mind whirring and his teeth chewing his lip. Ilya was on the other side of the Atlantic. A sudden urge had risen up within him to remember the scent of cigarettes and the musk of his room back in Boston. It was unconscious, he tells himself, when he pulled Ilya’s shirt over his head, buried his nose into the fabric.

Like that, his nose pressed against the t-shirt and his eyes squeezed shut, sleep had finally pulled Shane down and clicked off the whirring of his mind.

Even in the morning, when he'd woken up with a hard-on and Ilya's scent wrapped around him, Shane hadn’t jerked himself off.

Focus, he’d told himself, and cussed out Ilya under his breath for getting under his skin again.

Ilya saunters in from the bathroom topless, his hair ruffled as he stands next to Shane, his eyes wandering over the top as they brush their teeth. Their eyes meet in the mirror for a second, and then they're both glancing away.

"My fashion reputation will be ruined," Shane says when they've finished brushing their teeth.

"Hmm, no," Ilya says, sauntering towards Shane, sliding his hands onto Shane's waist. "Is hot."

The team breakfast is silent, a sharp contrast to the laughter of their room. Some players chew with their eyes fixed on their plates, whilst others’ legs bounce under the table.

Shane follows his pre-game routine with his usual precision, with morning skate, yoga, stretching, meditation, visualisation, napping and every ritual he’s had since he was thirteen, until the biggest game of his life is suddenly right under his nose.

He sees his parents, briefly, outside the rink, and they pull him into their arms and squeeze him tight.

“Love you, Shane, no matter what,” David says. Shane nods into his chest.

“Love you, Shane. Remember what I told you about your backhand,” Yuna says when it’s her turn. Shane's breath gets caught in his throat at the words, at the silent reminder of all the years she put into Shane, all the years were taken from her when she couldn't play herself.

Sometimes, Shane wishes that he could split open his mind and let her see how much he wants this. To let her see that all those years of dedication to Shane weren’t for nothing, to let her examine the very deepest parts of Shane. The parts that would do anything in the whole world to win.

He wonders if she knows that he's not going to get first overall. If it's already written in that notebook where she keeps Shane's life, already etched into it like some kind of prophecy.

When he steps out onto the ice for warmups, Shane’s hands are firm on his stick and his skates carve through the ice. The crowd is packed even at the start of warmups, swarming with scouts.

Soon Shane is back in the changing room, standing up to give his pre-game speech. The words flow out of him as he looks around the room at the team, and soon he’s bumping his chest against Ilya and standing in the tunnel with the cool air of the rink on his skin.

In the blink of an eye he’s stepping out onto the ice and the crowd is cheering and the puck is dropping.

It flies across the ice, back and forth on the stick of each player. Denver scores first, a blistering wrist-shot from the dot that makes the crowd yell, a sea of moving colours that surround the ice.

But soon BU scores in return, Shane weaving through the defensemen to slot the puck between the goaltender’s legs.

Denver scores again as the power play draws to an end, and BU finishes the first period 2-1 down.

The changing room is draped in silence, players taping their sticks or tapping their feet impatiently against the floor. Shane stares at the ground; the room is dulled around him, his mind buzzing with thoughts of the goaltender’s stronger side and the weaknesses of each Denver defenseman.

When he looks up, Ilya’s eyes are on him from across the room. And then his mouth is curving up into a smile as he looks at Shane. It’s steady, confident, but without the arrogance of his smirks. So Shane smiles in return; he stands, heads for tunnel with his head pointed straight forwards.

In the second period, the Denver players slam BU’s players into the boards; the refs’ whistles screech again and again, the crowd getting louder with every hit.

Shane receives the puck from a face-off in the BU end, Ilya sprinting up the ice next to him as he glides down the right wing towards the goal. There’s a shape in the corner of his vision; he pulls back. But it’s too late. The boards are slamming up against his shoulder. A burst of pain, a harsh thump. Shane wheezes as he lies on the cool ice beneath him, fighting to get air back into his lungs and to get his legs under him so that he can chase after the puck.

Shane pulls himself up. There, in front of him, Ilya is shoving the Denver player into the boards, gripping onto his jersey and shouting something into his face. The refs leap in; the crowd screams. Ilya grins as he turns to face Shane, shaking off the ref behind him.

“Seriously?” Shane says. “It was a clean hit.”

“You good?” Ilya asks instead, looking him up and down.

“I’m fine.” Shane rolls his eyes as the ref announces a Denver power play.

Denver scores again, leaving the score 3-1 when Ilya comes back onto the ice. He wins the face-off and passes to Shane, who levels another pass at their linemate. The puck goes back to Ilya, back to Shane, each man looking for a path through the defensemen to the goal.

When Shane sees it, he pulls the puck back on his stick, his stance low and his eyes on the goal. He slams the puck forwards and it sails into the top-left corner, right where he knows the goaltender’s weak spot is. The ref's whistle blows, the crowd erupts.

Ilya’s arms are enveloping Shane before he’s even turned around, his teammates following. He turns, presses his face into Ilya’s chest, and then he’s skating away to the bench. They’ve got more goals to score.

The third period begins with the score drawn at 3-3. BU levels shot after shot, each attempt futile.

Desperation seizes Shane, a visceral need for something to hit the back of the net; his legs are numb beneath him and his breath is coming in harsh pants. He skates up the ice once more, pulling the puck side to side, threading through the defensemen, throwing himself around them and scanning for a chance.

Shane passes the puck to Ilya, Ilya passing it to their linemate, who shoots from close-range—

And the puck is deflecting off the post.

It falls back onto the ice, skitters backwards as the players watch for a millisecond.

And then everyone is rushing forwards; a Denver player reaches the puck, charges down the ice on a breakaway. The crowd holds their breath, Shane's panting loud in his ears as he charges down the ice in pursuit.

His mind flicks back to the Beanpot, when the BC player had scored on the breakaway, when his world had started to crumble around him as he watched them slot the puck into the net.

The game can’t end like this.

Shane can only watch as a BU defenseman hooks his stick around the player's ankle, makes him tumble to the ice. The crowd inhales, the ref's whistle blows.

“Great work,” Shane says.

“Love you,” Ilya calls to the defenseman as he heads for the penalty box with a two-minute minor. A power play for Denver.

Shane glances up at the scoreboard. Two minutes where BU has one less player on the ice. Three minutes to score before the end of regular time. He exhales slowly, skates to centre ice for the puck-drop.

Three minutes to score the most important goal of all their lives.

The puck drops, sticks clatter, and Denver wins the faceoff as the BU players crouch low around their goal. A Denver defenseman releases a slapshot, Ilya throwing himself down on the ice in front of the puck so that it thumps into his side.

Shane rushes forwards, gets the puck onto his stick. Thirty seconds left. His legs burn beneath him as he rushes down the ice, faster than they ever have done this late in a game.

A defenseman stands in his path, his stick held out to the side and his stance wide.

Shane pulls the puck back to his left side before he snaps it forwards. It slots between the defenseman’s legs. He pushes past, looks up at the goaltender.

His mind rushes through the possibilities as he speeds towards the goal. Shoot top-left. Risk shooting in the same place for the second time in a row. Shoot top-right. The goaltender’s strongest side. Try to go round the goaltender. Riskier. Hasn’t worked so far.

Or—try something unpredictable. Break the rules; do something unpredictable. Do something that Ilya would be proud of, that Shane would say is too risky.

In less than a second, the move is decided.

Shane approaches the goaltender, pulls the puck side to side on his stick as if to try and skill him. Instead, he passes the puck behind him. Back to where he knows Ilya is waiting.

The goaltender tries to adjust his stance, to prepare for a long-range shot. But it’s too late.

Ilya’s shot snaps into the back of the net.

There’s a beat of silence before the screaming of the crowd begins. It sounds muffled in Shane’s ears as he turns, his eyes locking on to Ilya’s. They skate towards one another, their chests slamming together, their arms wrapping around each other.

4-3 to Boston University in the final minute of play, the announcer calls over the shouts of the crowd and the goal horn.

Shane laughs into Ilya’s neck as the crowd cheers around them. There’s a brush of lips against his neck.

Ilya pulls back to look at Shane, a grin on his face before he skates back to the bench. One minute left to play.

Shane skates back to the bench, sits down next to Ilya. Their shoulders brush, then press closer together, their eyes on the final minute of the game.

"Nice goal," Shane says, his eyes locked on the ice.

"Thanks," Ilya murmurs. There's a touch on Shane's hand; he glances down. Ilya's gloved hand is resting on Shane's. He's pulling his lip between his teeth, his eyes on the play. Shane exhales, feels the pressure of Ilya's hand on his.

Thirty seconds to go. Ilya's hand grips tighter around Shane's. Fifteen. Ten. Five.

And then the buzzer is booming through the arena, thrumming through Shane's body; the BU players leap onto the ice, throw their gear into the air, jump into each other’s arms.

Shane and Ilya stand, turn to face one another.

National Champions.

Shane says it out loud, the words sounding foreign on his tongue.

National fucking Champions, Ilya says, a grin across his face as he looks into Shane's eyes. For a second, Shane grins back, and then they're leaping onto the ice, finding their teammates, pushing into the group hug.

Eventually, Shane lines the team up for the handshakes as his eyes trace over the Denver players. Their heads are bowed, some players with tears spilling down their cheeks. All over a lost hockey game, Shane thinks. Over something that should mean so little, but has somehow come to mean so much.

Shane lifts the trophy in front of the cameras with raucous cheers from his teammates, gold medals around all their necks and the crowd shouting in enthusiasm, a sea of BU banners and colours. He looks for his mom in the crowd: she's smiling so hard it looks painful, her hand wrapped around David's arm.

Shane wonders if this victory and his MVP award will be enough: if it will mean that she won’t be disappointed when Ilya gets first overall, not Shane. What more can I do, mom? I’ve tried so hard.

And he has tried so hard. He knows it. So he grins at the cameras, kisses the trophy, raises it high. Ilya’s hand squeezes his shoulder. He fucking deserves it.

Yuna and David envelop Shane in a hug when he comes off the ice. Yuna’s hug is tight, clasping, a faint wobble to her mouth as she holds Shane in her arms.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers.

“It was for you, mom,” Shane whispers back, his throat aching with unshed tears as he buries his face into her neck.

“Enjoy the celebrations, okay?” She tells him when they pull apart. “We’ll come collect you from BU in a couple days.”

David reaches out to ruffle Shane’s hair as he turns to head back to the team.

The press conference is swarming with media, cameras flashing in Shane and Ilya’s faces as they recite to the journalists how grateful they are for the team, how the whole group has worked so hard and the support staff have helped them so much.

Ilya’s smirk only dies down when Shane thanks their coach, Ilya’s jaw tightening for a moment before he’s back to answering the questions with his usual unabashed charm.

“Your chemistry on the ice has been undeniable,” a reporter begins. “Has it been affected at all by the competition for the upcoming draft?”

Shane clears his throat as Ilya looks across at him. “We—um, we haven’t really been impacted by it, I think.” He glances across at Ilya, as Ilya’s foot brushes his own under the table. “Just—um, it’s been great to play with each other.”

Ilya nods in agreement.

Another question. “Shane: you've been in the spotlight for many years, and Canada has followed your progress for a long time. I'm sure Rozanov's rise into the hockey world was unexpected for you, and probably not entirely welcome." Shane freezes. "But now that you're on a team together, has your opinion of him changed?" The man is standing in the middle of the room; there's a notebook in his hand. It reminds Shane of his mother's notebook where she keeps Shane's life. The other journalists are watching, curious, examining Shane like he's an animal at the zoo. How is Shane Hollander going to get out of this one?

And, worse: how can Shane Hollander pretend that he still feels that same hatred for Ilya Rozanov? That hatred that began on that day, one year and six months ago, when Shane's mother showed him pages of notes about the newest star fresh from Russia. Just look at that backhand, she'd said. Isn't he incredible?

And so, Shane Hollander is stuck.

"I—um," he starts. The journalists seem to take a simultaneous step forwards towards him.

"I know I was intimidated by Hollander," comes Ilya's voice from next to Shane. Shane glances sideways: Ilya isn't looking at him. "But playing on a team together has just made us better. I'm sure Hollander feels the same."

He turns to look at Shane. Shane is frozen, silent. Ilya's knee touches his under the table. "Yes," Shane says. The man nods.

When they eventually stand up to leave, Shane’s medal bangs against his chest each time he takes a step, the weight of it heavy round his neck. The corridor is deserted, a long stretch of empty grey carpet. There are no windows, no noises. No escape.

“You’ll be able to play centre in the league next year,” Ilya says, turning to Shane with a smirk on his face.

“I know." Shane's mouth presses into a line. He looks down at the medal; he lifts a hand to feel the cold hardness of it under his hands. He swallows. "I don't hate you, you know."

Ilya huffs out a laugh. "I don't think I hate you either."

"Oh." Shane swallows again. "You should hate me."

"You should probably hate me, too."

"I don't."

Maybe Ilya doesn’t want this to end. Or maybe he does: maybe Shane doesn’t know Ilya Rozanov as well as he thinks he does. But, no matter what, the future is empty anyway. Have you forgotten? Hockey’s rules don’t bend for anyone.

Don't you remember that you don't feel things like hatred, or lust, or love? Don't you remember that you're just a machine built for hockey, built for perfection?

Shane swallows, looks down at his medal again. Ha, funny. There's already a chip in the gold.

He looks back up at Ilya. His eyes are open wide, the blue of his irises shining bright under the sterile white lights. His lips are barely parted, his eyes on Shane. And then he looks down at the medal clasped in Shane's hand, looks back up.

And then, like a tide slipping away from the shore, Shane watches as Ilya's expression melts into his familiar blank mask. The glimmer of his eyes fades, his lips close. He smirks.

And then Ilya leans forwards, letting his breath ghost over Shane's ear. Because even Ilya Rozanov can't bend the rules of hockey to his will.

“You won’t be so quiet when I fuck you tonight, Hollander,” he whispers.

For once, Shane doesn't want to hear it.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

The club pounds with music as Shane steps into the moving crowd of people, following behind Hayden. They head towards the bar, ordering drinks as they look around for the rest of the team that had snuck out of the hotel just before them. Shane’s eyes scan the wave of bodies illuminated under the pink lights. He’s just going to make an appearance before he goes home with Ilya, he tells himself, and pulls his shoulders upright.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Hayden shouts into Shane’s ear, his voice muffled by the music. “Wait here.”

Shane nods, his eyes glancing round the room as Hayden disappears down some corridor; the lights flash in his eyes, the music shaking the floor of the club beneath his feet. The floor is sticky and a girl walks past him. Her eyes run over him; she smiles, the purple light reflecting in her eyes. "I like your outfit," she says.

"Oh, thanks." And then her friend is pulling her away and more bodies are replacing them. Shane wonders if he should turn and face the wall to stop anyone from noticing him; he looks down at his shirt, ironed specially for this. He's never been good at telling when someone is joking. Was she joking?

The lights are moving fast. Shane doesn't want to care about how his shirt looks. He wants to think about Ilya saying: I don't hate you. He wants to see the fleeting blue of Ilya's eyes before they went blank. A man brushes past Shane: his arms are draped in a silky maroon fabric, his hair gelled, glitter on his eyelids. Someone else moves past, taking a sip from a lurid blue drink; her friend laughs, reaches out to grasp her hand and pull her into the crowd.

Shane wonders if any of them know about hockey. They don't seem the type.

He wonders if he should forget about hockey, too, for tonight. If he should let that feeling come in again—the one that he felt when he and Ilya first touched. The one where the world doesn't seem real, where every sensation has been dulled, replaced by the fervour of a drug that pours through his system, makes him smile, forget. A woman in a glittering silver dress struts past, a man with his hair out of place like he's just been kissed, a couple with their hands intertwined. Or maybe not a couple: maybe they're enjoying this drug too, this temporary release.

Shane inhales. He thinks of Ilya's glittering eyes. He steps into the crowd.

A hand grasps Shane’s. It's warm and broad, pulling him round, and suddenly he's face to face with Ilya. His eyes are bright under the moving lights, his smile illuminated and his shirt half unbuttoned, and Shane barely has a moment to inhale at the sight before he's being pulled into the crowd.

Ilya's hand doesn't let him go until they're in the middle of the crowd, until Ilya is close enough to touch.

The music changes, a rising, fast beat that pulses through Shane. Ilya grins; Shane is breathless.

His mind flickers back to when Miles had kissed that man in the club in front of Shane. For a moment, Shane imagines himself doing the same: he sees himself stepping forwards towards Ilya, letting Ilya's hands encase his waist and his breath ghost across Shane's skin. He imagines the way they might kiss, if Ilya might taste like alcohol, if he might taste different, somehow. He imagines a world where they could enjoy it, where he could want to kiss Ilya under the lights, and where he could just reach out and do it. Just because he can, just because he wants to.

Shane takes a step closer. The music accelerates, the lights flash; Ilya's eyes are on Shane and his are on Ilya in return. And Shane is reaching a hand out to Ilya, a brush of fingers against Ilya's arm. And then he’s clasping it fully, and Ilya isn't smiling anymore. Instead, he looks hungry, his lips parted under the purple lights and his pupils blown wide.

And then there’s a hand on Shane's shoulder. His head snaps round.

"Hey," Shane thinks he hears Hayden say, the rest of the team in tow. They crowd around them, grinning and dancing and ruffling Shane’s hair as he turns away from Ilya.

A body steps closer to Shane, asks if they’re the team that “won that competition today”. Shane's eyes are widening, his chest compressing, and Ilya’s hand is pulling Shane through the club and they’re stepping into the cold dark of the night, the music fading behind them.

“Come, Shane,” Ilya says, pulling on Shane’s arm where he’s got his phone out, typing out a message to Hayden saying he’s going home with a few guys from the team.

“Wait a sec,” he says, Ilya pulling him down the street with a grin on his face. “Can’t we get a taxi back?”

“Faster to walk,” Ilya says, Shane rolling his eyes as he lets himself be dragged along. The streets are mellow and dark as they leave the club behind them, the street lights illuminating the cool mist that’s settled on the ground.

“You’re shivering,” Shane says as Ilya runs a hand up and down his bare arm.

“I’m not,” Ilya frowns. “Russians don’t get cold.”

Shane huffs out a laugh. “Should’ve worn a jacket,” he grins, pulling his own jacket more tightly around himself as they continue through the mist down the street.

“Okay, it’s cold,” Ilya eventually admits, Shane laughing softly. “Gimme some of your jacket,” Ilya whines, pouting and bumping his shoulder into Shane.

“No,” Shane laughs. “Should’ve brought your own.”

Ilya’s pout worsens as Shane watches him, a smile on his face.

Shane glances around for anyone nearby. “Fine,” he relents. “Come here.”

He takes the jacket off, draping it over his back and holding up one side of it for Ilya to slide underneath. They walk like that, their shoulders pressed together and the jacket across both their backs.

“Such a good captain,” Ilya grins, leaning into Shane.

“Shut up,” Shane huffs, a soft smile across his face. “You should be the one giving me the jacket if you’re gonna be fucking me.”

“My captain is too strong for that,” Ilya says, his face serious. But he speeds up until he’s practically jogging, pulling Shane along with him. Their laughter rings out across the street as Ilya’s arm wraps over Shane’s shoulder to drag him along faster back to the hotel.

By the time they’re back in the hotel room, their cheeks are flushed and their laughter is soft.

Ilya closes the door behind them as Shane inhales deeply. He’s just a step apart from Ilya, but the distance feels intolerable, cavernous.

Ilya turns to smile at Shane from across that boundary and Shane is stepping forwards, and Ilya’s arms are there, pulling Shane into him.

His lips press to Shane’s with a breathless desire; it’s a slow, melting kiss, one that makes Shane close his eyes and sink into the feeling of Ilya’s arms around him.

Ilya’s hands slide under his legs, and Shane is being lifted and he’s wrapping his legs around Ilya’s back and his arms around his neck. They collapse together onto the bed, Ilya’s hand brushing Shane’s hair out of his eyes as he looks deep inside them.

“You still want?” Ilya whispers, his leg slotting between Shane’s.

“I still want,” Shane breathes, and Ilya’s lips press back onto his, and they’re rolling over together, their hands caressing each other’s backs and lifting up each other’s tops, pulling off their clothes. Ilya's hands are warm as they run over Shane's stomach, brushing up over his chest and further upwards to cup his face, to pull him close and kiss him.

Shane tips his head back, a slow breath of silent pleasure escaping him when Ilya takes Shane into his mouth; his mouth is warm, the pressure tight as he bobs up and down. His eyes remain fixed on Shane, looking at him like he's all that matters. Ilya seems to coax the pleasure out of Shane, every slide of his hands on Shane's thighs and every movement he makes on Shane's cock making his stomach twist, his back arch, and soon he's pulling Ilya off him and huffing out a laugh.

"Let's—" Shane says, and doesn't finish his sentence. Ilya looks at him with glittering eyes. He knows what Shane means.

Shane reaches out to the nightstand, pulling out the strip of condoms and handing them to Ilya.

Ilya smiles as he holds them up. “You have enough?”

Shane turns his face to the side, pressing it into the softness of the pillows with a bashful smile, and Ilya leans down to plant a kiss on Shane’s stomach, brushing a hand up his side.

Ilya leans down once more, and soon he’s taking out the lube and frowning as he tries to get the right amount. And then he's pressing a finger carefully into Shane, his hand holding Shane's thigh, anchoring him, holding him tight. Their eyes are on each other, breaths shallow and lips parted; Shane feels the press of a second finger, then a third, careful inside of him. He pulls his legs further apart, tries to tell Ilya how much he wants this.

Ilya's cheeks are tinged pink, his eyes wide and unblinking as he rolls on the condom. His hands fumble, just a little, on the lube, and Shane reaches a hand out to touch Ilya's arm.

"Come on, asshole," Shane says. Ilya's eyes flick upwards to Shane's; his mouth lifts into a smile.

"Asshole," he whispers back. "Impatient."

Shane lies back against the pillows, plants his feet against the mattress. He has to look at the ceiling for a moment, to steady something inside of him. He's not sure what it is, really. He just feels like—like maybe this is something important, like this is changing something between them.

"Ready?" Ilya asks.

"Yes," Shane breathes.

When Ilya gently pushes inside him, his eyes trace over Shane for his every reaction. It's a slow push, one that opens Shane up around him and slides deeper gently, gradually. Shane feels like he's burning under Ilya's eyes, like the weight of the care in his gaze is too much, too good and too caring and it's going to set him alight from being looked after this much. It’s not the calculating eyes of his scouts, nor the competitive eyes of his opponents, nor the empty admiration of the crowd.

He’s being looked at in a way that he’s not sure he’ll ever be looked at again.

"Fuck," he murmurs, as looks up into Ilya's eyes.

“Is good?” Ilya asks as he halts his motion for a moment.

“It’s good,” Shane breathes, and he’s tipping his head back as the motion of Ilya inside of him gets faster, waves of aching pleasure washing over him. And he’s reaching out a hand to Ilya’s neck, an anchor to hold them close.

An aching pleasure starts deep inside of him, radiating outwards with every push of Ilya inside of him. Ilya's stretching him wide, pushing deep into his body, finding the places inside of him that make his back arch and his breath unsteady.

His motions get faster, rocking the bed, pushing Shane up the bed so that he has to reach out a hand to the headboard. He pulls his legs wider and Ilya leans down towards him, their lips finding each other. Shane clings onto every feeling of Ilya’s lips on his own, every touch of Ilya’s warm hands and every movement of Ilya inside of him.

Ilya's hand finds his cock, wrapping around it softly, moving in time with his motions.

Maybe this can be enough, he thinks. Maybe he can reach such a point of completion from this moment that he’ll never need to feel Ilya’s touch again. Maybe he can get through the rest of his life just off this feeling of Ilya inside of him.

"Fuck," Shane says, his voice raw, and then he's coming all over Ilya's hand.

“These are pretty,” Ilya whispers afterwards as they’re laying together, his fingers tracing over the marks on Shane’s side. “How do you call them?”

“Stretch marks.”

Ilya nods as he leans down to press a kiss to them, Shane’s hand brushing over his hair.

“Pretty,” Ilya whispers into the skin there, and Shane pulls him up to press a kiss to his lips. He slides down Ilya’s body, his lips brushing over the muscle of Ilya’s chest, his thumbs running down the sides of Ilya’s body and back up. They reach the tattoo to the left of Ilya’s chest. It’s small, an image of a bear roaring, its mouth wide open.

Shane brushes his thumb over it, resting his head on Ilya’s chest as Ilya’s hand slides into his hair.

“What does your tattoo mean?” Shane asks.

Ilya pauses for a moment, his hand stilling.

“You wanna know?”

“You don’t have to say,” Shane says, looking up at Ilya. Ilya’s eyes are widened slightly, his lips parted as he looks down at Shane with something tender in his eyes.

“No, it’s. It’s okay.” Ilya pauses for a second, looking up at the ceiling with his head resting on the pillow. “My father likes to kill bears, put things inside of them so they can stand. I don’t know the word. Чуче́лить, in Russian. He makes them stand, puts them around the house.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers.

Ilya’s silent for a moment before he replies. “It’s okay. It’s how he does things.” Ilya swallows, Shane feeling the motion of it from where he’s resting on Ilya’s chest. “I just always feel like, sad, for the bears. I don’t know. It’s stupid. I just—I wanted to make the bears alive again.” Ilya’s voice is raw, his gaze directed to the ceiling as his hand remains in Shane’s hair.

There’s an ache in Shane’s throat as he studies the image.

“It’s pretty,” he breathes, his thumb tracing over the tattoo, over the mouth of the bear.

“My—um, my mother used to cry. Whenever my father brought home another bear.” Ilya’s voice is raw and soft, his eyes focussed on the ceiling.

“She sounds kind,” Shane whispers. “What’s her name?”

“Irina. I’m going to see her in Russia this summer.” Ilya swallows again. “Her grave.”

“Are you gonna see your father?”

“Yes. First time in three years, since I came to live with Svetlana here.”

“Are you gonna be okay?”

“Yes, I’m used to him. He’ll come to the draft, too.” Ilya’s voice takes on a note of hoarseness, as if the words hurt to say. He remains motionless against the pillow but for the movement of his hand in Shane’s hair.

“You can—you can text me, if you need to. You have my number,” Shane says, lifting his head to look at Ilya.

Ilya brushes Shane’s hair off his forehead, his eyes fixed on the task and refusing to meet Shane’s. “It’s okay. Don’t wanna bother you.”

“It’s not gonna bother me,” Shane frowns.

Ilya’s silent for a moment, his eyes meeting Shane’s. “Okay,” he says.

Shane nods, his cheeks reddening as he lays his head back on Ilya’s chest. He feels the motion of Ilya’s breath and hears the slow beating of his heart deep within. They stay like that for a few minutes, draped in silence.

“I—um, I wanted to say that you were probably right to like—tell the coaches about the thing with the snickers bar,” Shane begins. “I know it’s not…normal, or whatever, to do that.”

“I just told him to stop pushing you with the food stuff. It’s not normal for Coach to be so obsessed with what you eat, you know,” Ilya says softly, his hand brushing over Shane’s hair.

“He was trying to help me.” Shane’s voice is hoarse, his eyes staring across the room.

“He was telling you to only eat that tiny range of food. I told him it was too much, that he should stop pushing you like that.”

“He was trying to help me though, right?” Shane says, his voice almost a whisper.

There’s a moment of silence before Ilya speaks, his heart beating steadily beneath Shane’s ear. “Not in the right way.”

Shane runs his thumb over Ilya’s tattoo again. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I know.”

Ilya brushes his hand over Shane’s hair, down towards Shane’s ear. He runs his thumb over the outside of it, tracing the delicate skin there.

“I thought you told him about me crying in the dining room.” Shane says.

“No,” Ilya murmurs. “Not directly, at least.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Ilya says, the motion of his thumb continuing on Shane’s ear. Shane closes his eyes, feeling the gentle sensation of Ilya’s touch for those few, precious, minutes. They doze off at some point, Shane thinks, but he can’t be sure.

“Is that why you were so bratty, before?” Ilya says after a while, continuing the conversation as if they’d never stopped. Shane can hear the smile in his voice. “All those times when you told me to clean the room? Or when you teased me by jerking off in your own bed.”

“No,” Shane smiles, his head still resting on Ilya’s chest.

“Hmm. Are you just a brat all the time, then?”

“M’not,” Shane says, closing his eyes again.

“I think you are, Mr Captain.” Ilya rolls over, Shane falling onto the bed beneath him as he’s caged in by Ilya’s legs. “My captain is a little bit of a brat, I think.”

Shane laughs, turning his head to the side with a smile. He doesn’t think about the fact that he’s not really Ilya’s captain any more. That he’ll probably never play as Ilya’s captain again.

Ilya grabs Shane’s chin, planting a kiss on Shane’s lips before he moves down his body, offering kisses across his stomach, on his hips, over his stretch marks. Shane shivers as he looks up at the ceiling.

He can enjoy this, one more time. Just once more.

In the end, Ilya fucks him three times that night. After that first time, it’s teasing and gentle, Shane’s orgasm coming from deep within himself, a gradual build that Ilya coaxes out of him, Shane’s knees pressed to his chest and their eyes on each other.

The last time is early in the morning. They’d slept together, intertwined on Ilya’s bed for a few hours as the sun rose, and Shane had woken to morning light dappling across the floor, the blinds never getting closed that night.

He’d shuffled down the bed under the covers, taking Ilya’s cock into his mouth, breathing softly through his nose as he catalogued each shift of Ilya’s waking body. Time had blurred around him, only measured by the sun that went from orange to a brighter yellow, the room filling with light.

Even when Ilya was fully awake, neither of them moved for a long while. Shane closed his eyes as he tried to etch the feeling into his memory, the feeling of having Ilya close to him and inside him and around him.

Eventually, he had begun to suckle at Ilya’s cock, his mouth moving gently across the head, bobbing down slowly. When Ilya had come, he’d pulled Shane up to his lap, pressing a kiss to Shane’s lips and letting him fall onto Ilya’s chest. He rested there, his small whimpers the only sound in the room as Ilya pressed his fingers into Shane’s hole, already loose and ready for him.

Like that, Ilya had made him come, his fingers inside of Shane, something unspoken hanging between them.

For one brief moment, Shane’s eyes had prickled with tears as he leaned forwards to rest his head on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya had run a hand up Shane’s back to hold Shane close to him and to press them together.

“I know,” Ilya had whispered when a tear ran down Shane’s face and landed on Ilya’s bare shoulder.

Soon, Shane is packing up his clothes back into his suitcase, folding up each item into a perfect square and lining them up in his suitcase. Just before they go to the team bus, Ilya pushes Shane up against the door, pressing their lips together and grasping Shane’s t-shirt. It’s the Adidas one that belongs to Ilya, and he holds it tight in his hands as they pant into each other’s mouths.

“бля, детка” Ilya says when they break apart. Shane watches the movement of Ilya’s lips as he speaks, the way that he holds his mouth differently when he’s speaking Russian.

“You should speak in Russian more often,” Shane says, leaning back against the door as his eyes study Ilya.

Ilya turns his head to the side. “Maybe,” he says, his voice rough. He takes his suitcase, opens the door and leaves the room before Shane can say anything else.

Hayden sits next to Shane on the flight, placing the heavy trophy in Shane’s lap with a grin as their teammates chatter around them. They’re still buzzing from the win, shouting and laughing as Shane looks down at the trophy.

Ilya’s playing a game with some guys from the team. Shane can hear his shouts rising up from a few rows behind, so he leans against the window for the entirety of the flight and tries to block out the noises.

Straight off the flight the team parades around campus with the trophy. Crowds of students cheer around them, and Shane’s hair is ruffled by random hands and his back is clapped more times than he can count. He forces his face into a smile each time.

That night, Ilya fucks him slow and deep and hard. Shane tries to lose himself in the rhythm of Ilya’s movements, but Ilya’s eyes are overwhelming in their intensity as he looks at Shane, so he turns over and Ilya fucks him from behind. It doesn’t make the ache in Shane’s chest go away.

The room is heavy with silence after Ilya’s returned to his bed, and Shane stares at the wall for what feels like hours, his mind on the long, empty summer that’s stretching ahead of him. A summer without Ilya. Or rather, his first summer without Ilya.

In the morning, Shane’s parents come and help him pack up his things. Ilya leaves the room when they enter, Yuna giving him a curt nod and David offering a smile. Ilya’s got that closed-off mask on his face again, his mouth lifted into a half-smirk that Shane hasn’t seen in a long time.

Ilya returns to the dorm just as Shane is checking the empty room for anything he’s missing, his parents waiting down the corridor. He stands in front of Shane for a moment, the both of them motionless as their eyes meet. There’s something painful and devastating in Ilya’s eyes that makes Shane want to ask him why the hell he’s looking at him like that when Shane’s about to leave.

“Good luck with the draft,” Shane whispers instead. They’re the same lines he’d say to any teammate, the same lines he’d say to Ilya if none of this had happened at all.

“Good luck.” Ilya says softly. He looks shy, almost, his eyes not quite meeting Shane’s.

Shane doesn’t quite know who steps forwards first, but he finds himself enveloped in Ilya’s arms, Ilya’s hand running up and down his back. Shane grasps Ilya’s shirt and presses his face into Ilya’s neck as he tries to cling to every sensation of Ilya’s body against his, to the feeling of Ilya’s gentle hand on his back.

But time is slipping away from him, and soon he feels himself pull away, feels himself open the door and step into the corridor as if he’s watching himself from outside.

The door clicks shut behind Shane. And now he’s alone, walking down an empty corridor.

Chapter End Notes

I’ve got some deadlines coming up soon so updates might be a few days late for the next couple of weeks, just an fyi.

On a different note, today I discovered that Americans tend to say ‘look around’ and Brits ‘look round’, and that it’s ‘forwards’ in the UK and ‘forward’ in America!

There are lots of other differences too, so I hope it’s not too jarring to read because this fic has become a weird mixture of both (which is apparently how Canada does things, so maybe it’s a win). Anyway it’s super boring but I’m a languages nerd so I kind of love it.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 13

Shane’s parents sit on either side of him on the flight back to Canada. His dad skims the newspaper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. His glances at Shane are more subtle than Yuna’s, who looks at him with a curious smile whenever Shane shifts in his seat.

Shane sits back with his eyes closed to fight off the headache that’s throbbing at his temples. He can’t manage to smile. Not today.

Instead, he closes his eyes for the duration of the flight. He hopes that his parents don’t notice the occasional tremble of his lower lip when the memory of the door slamming behind him replays in his mind over and over again, Ilya there on the other side. He gives the medal to his mom when they land, tugging it out of his hand luggage and pushing it into her hand.

"You take it," he says. "I don't know what to do with it."

“Are you sure?” Yuna asks. "Don't you want it in the trophy cabinet?"

"I'm sure." Shane shrugs, looks away from her. He glances around the expanse of dark tarmac, feeling the cold breeze in his face, pushing through his hair. "I don't want it in the trophy cabinet."

Shane heads straight to bed when they arrive home, opening up one of the suitcases on the floor and rummaging through the neat piles.

He takes out the Adidas t-shirt with trembling hands. The one that belongs to Ilya. Or belonged, Shane supposes. Not like he’s gonna be able to return it to Ilya any time soon.

He holds it in his hands, feels the texture of the cheap polyester against his skin. He lifts it to his nose, as if he could smell some trace of Ilya in it. It smells of detergent, mostly. There's maybe a hint of cigarettes, a hint of the smell that is so Ilya that Shane would recognise anywhere.

Does Ilya think about Shane, about the shirt that never got returned to his closet?

When Shane gets into bed that night, three days after the biggest win of his life, he presses the t-shirt close into his chest. He looks at the medals laying there, the trophies shining, cleaned weekly by Yuna. They look dull in the darkness of the room; he can see himself in the reflection of the cabinet's glass, laying on his side with the duvet pulled to his chin. He doesn't want it; he doesn't want the trophies, his reflection, the reminder of his mother in the shiny surface of the trophies. So Shane pulls the covers over his head. He buries his nose in Ilya's t-shirt and pretends he's back in his room at BU, Ilya's body next to him.

The next morning Shane’s psychologist calls him. He sighs as he watches his Blackberry ring with its shrill tone. He had told her that they could only talk after the championship, that he couldn’t afford any distractions, but now the appointment has swung round and is now looming right over him.

Shane picks up the call. He can hear that disconcerting smile in her voice as she greets him, asking if he’d remembered about their scheduled phone appointment.

“Yes,” Shane tells her, sitting at the desk in his room with his back rigid against the back of the chair. He’d locked his door beforehand, and he’s not exactly sure why. It’s not like his parents would judge him for seeing the team psychologist, he thinks. Or hopes. But it feels like something that should be hidden away, kept to himself.

“The summer’s gonna be busy,” he tells her when she asks about his plans for the vacation. She doesn’t say anything in response so he continues speaking, his hand rubbing up and down his thigh. “I’ll do morning training each day with the usual routines with the gym and then some on-ice stuff, then every other day I’ll go to PT and do various other therapies like ice baths, saunas, massages. That sort of thing.”

“Any plans to go on vacation this summer?”

“My parents are going away for a weekend to Toronto, but I didn’t want to mess up my schedule so I’m staying at home to train.” Shane’s eyes flick across the medals hung up above his desk as he speaks. It’s the right decision. Best for his hockey.

“Okay,” she says. “Does the idea of a vacation stress you out at all?”

“No…” Shane frowns. “I wouldn’t, like—I don’t get stressed about that stuff. I just like my routine. I don’t want to change it.”

“So, you find routine each day something enjoyable?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s predictable, I guess. And it gets the best results.”

“How do you feel when something throws your routine off?”

“I don’t—I don’t like it, I guess. I just like doing things the right way.” Shane frowns, shifting in his seat.

“Okay, Shane,” she says through the phone, her voice imbued with that same sickly sweetness she always has. She asks him more questions, probing and prodding him from different angles as if she’s looking for something he can’t see.

Shane fiddles with the hem of his shorts as he answers her, his answers abrupt and shielded as he tries to figure out what she’s seeing in his words. He can hear her writing in her notebook through the phone as he tells her about his social life, about how he finds conversations difficult sometimes but it’s only because he prefers to think about hockey.

“I’m noticing a slight pattern here around routine and change,” she says after a little while, and Shane straightens his back where he’s sitting. He swallows tightly as she continues. “A lot of the traits you’ve described today and in our previous appointments are often found in people on the autism spectrum. Has that ever come up for you at all?”

Shane’s face is blank as he listens.

He takes the phone away from his ear.

The word sits in front of him like he’s just supposed to accept it.

Autism.

He wants to laugh at the concept, at the idea that he might have something else wrong with him. Another thing for the media to pick apart, for his teammates to notice or the coach to tell him to improve. Something else on top of all that other stuff that makes him a stranger in the locker room.

He wants to smash the phone on his desk and throw it into the sea so that he doesn’t need to see her or hear her sickly sweet voice again.

A muffled sound comes through the phone where he’s holding it in front of him.

“Would you be interested in—” she begins.

“No, sorry,” he says.

He looks back up at the medals above his desk with his lips held tightly together to stop them from trembling. He’s a hockey player. And hockey players can’t be different.

The next day, Shane cancels his remaining appointments with the psychologist.

He makes breakfast alone before his parents come downstairs. Thirty-five grams of protein exactly, the right quantity of micronutrients, the correct amount of fluids.

He cuts three different fruits into chunks of identical sizes. He measures out his yoghurt on the scales and uses a measuring jug for his protein shake. He places his food on the table in a neat formation and lines up his cutlery and napkin so that they’re perfectly perpendicular to the table.

When Shane finally sits down, he runs his eyes over the food. Thirty-five grams of protein, check. Slow-release carbs, check. Fruit, micro-nutrients, source of calcium, source of fibre. Check.

Everything is the way it should be, lined up into neat little boxes that he can check off. It’s neat and perfect and the way it should be if he wants to achieve his goals.

But when Shane picks up the cutlery, looks down at the food, he feels as if there’s something in his throat, something that means that he can’t take a single bite.

In the end, he can only manage a few bites before his mom comes downstairs, kissing Shane’s cheek as he sits there staring at the food. He heads upstairs before his parents notice.

Between his training sessions, he starts helping his mom with the Junior Girls’ team she coaches.

"How are you doing?" she asks him again, so he plasters a smile on his face and tells her what he's planning for them. She nods, looking at him curiously. So Shane's smile gets bigger; he looks at his NCAA medal that she hung in the kitchen and wonders what she would do if she knew about Ilya.

“He’s the most amazing hockey player in the whole world,” Yuna says when she introduces him to the team on that first night. He's not sure that she really believes it.

They ask what position he plays.

“Winger,” he tells them instinctively. Although now, he supposes, he can play centre again. Now that he’s not playing with Ilya.

"Why don't you meet a friend for coffee?" Yuna asks after the session. So Shane does: he meets up with a friend from juniors, and they sit in a cafe drinking coffee. The conversation is stilted and awkward: they have nothing in common any more. Not that Shane ever had anything in common with his teammates, really. He'd been too focussed on hockey for real friends. It makes Shane wonder how his life would be if he hadn't let hockey overtake his life.

Not that it would've even been an option, really, with his mom being the way she is.

As it always does, his mind wanders to Ilya, thinking about how he would never have these problems. Ilya could hold a conversation with anyone, could make them smile and laugh and fall in love with him a little bit. Shane has always been more like his mom: friends, conversations, they're just another thing to tick off. Another task that leads to success.

Shane thinks about Ilya’s dad, about Ilya visiting his mother’s grave, about those taxidermied bears in Ilya’s dad’s house.

Shane feels Ilya’s absence on the ice like a lost limb. His training partners can never replicate Ilya’s skill on the ice, the way that he’d manage to carve his own path towards the goal as if the defensemen didn’t exist.

When his parents leave for their vacation, he lets himself think about Ilya’s skin brushing over his, about the shape of Ilya’s lips and the fine lines of the bear tattoo on Ilya’s chest. He touches himself, slow and soft in the way that Ilya had touched him.

When he lies back on his bed and stares at the ceiling, the pleasure of his orgasm already fading, he realises he can’t quite remember the sound of Ilya’s voice.

He never gets a text from Ilya in the end. Not that he’d expected one, exactly. But he’d still spent hours of his summer staring at his texting history with Ilya, looking for a message. Sometimes he’d type something out asking how Russia was, or whether Ilya was doing okay. But he never sends anything, and never gets anything from Ilya. He wonders what his mother would do, if Ilya did text him and she saw. She'd probably smile, say that's nice, and then wonder why he's not being more competitve. The draft is on the line: what can matter more than that, right?

Because now, they’re just rivals who used to share a room.

The draft lottery happens at the end of May, the first overall pick going to the Brooklyn Scouts and the second to the New York Admirals.

“You’ll likely be drafted second overall,” Yuna tells Shane. “First is a possibility, but the chance of getting third overall is very slim. You’ll likely go to the Admirals.” She doesn't look at Shane as she speaks, just keeps her eyes on the notebook where she keeps Shane's life.

Look at me, Shane wants to say. Tell me it's okay.

Tell me that I'm still your golden boy.

Instead, Shane keeps his mouth shut. He lets Yuna schedule interviews and brand deals, lets her ramp Shane’s training up along with interview prep, media training and tape reviews. He sits in front of endless amounts of scouts who ask him prying questions, or repeat the same ones he’s heard in all his previous interviews.

Shane finds that he hardly needs to jerk off. When he does do it, it’s in the shower, quick and perfunctory. His dildo remains hidden at the back of his closet.

At the Combine before the draft, he’s poked and prodded by medical staff during the medical testing, and camera crews film his fitness tests whilst scouts stand around him, their eyes examining every part of him. It’s only worsened when he has to visit the teams with the top picks by himself, their eyes on him alone.

Shane sees Ilya, once. He walks past a window to one of the gyms when he sees Ilya’s curly blond hair through the window, and sucks in a breath as his eyes trace over the shape of Ilya’s body moving on the bike.

Shane drinks in the sight as he’s forced to keep moving, his mom just behind him.

The next time Shane sees Ilya, it’s at the rehearsal two days before the draft. When he arrives his usual ten minutes early, he’s shepherded into a stuffy room with bright-white lights. The other top picks start filtering in a few minutes later, offering awkward greetings and trying to initiate some stilted conversation.

Ilya’s the last to arrive. He’s got his usual smirk on his face as he strolls in, greeting some of the players near the door. He’s grown more muscular since Shane saw him last, more imposing. His face is more gaunt than Shane remembers, too, his eyes a little hollow.

Shane can still remember the way that his skin had felt under his hands.

His eyes flick around the room from where he’s standing in the corner. He waits for a moment, scripting the words in his head before he approaches Ilya.

“Hi,” he says softly.

Ilya glances over from where he’d been looking around the room.

“Hey,” he says, his eyes tracing over Shane’s face before they glance away.

“How was Russia?” Shane asks, his voice quiet.

“Fine.” Ilya looks down at the floor, his jaw twitches where it’s held tight. “How was Canada? You drink a lot of maple syrup?”

Shane’s laugh is breathy as his eyes run over Ilya’s face. Maybe he and Ilya could talk some more. They could text, maybe, could—

“Okay, let’s get started,” a voice calls from the doorway behind them.

Shane glances across at Ilya, but he’s already following the woman out of the door before Shane can catch up.

The day of the draft is filled with flashing cameras and microphones that are pushed into Shane’s face. His suit is buttoned too tightly and his breaths are unsteady, but he manages to give composed answers to each question with a forced smile.

Music is blaring from somewhere, echoing through the packed arena as the players take their seats for the draft, each of their shoulders held taut with anticipation.

Ilya’s table is next to Shane’s, with his agent and an old man sitting at it. The man’s back is held unnaturally straight, and Ilya looks small, almost, under his gaze. Shane knows immediately that it’s Ilya’s father.

His eyes are a piercing blue, so pale that they almost look white, and they’re unblinking as he stares straight ahead of him. Deep lines are carved around his mouth from where his lips are held tightly together, and there’s a row of medals on the lapel of his suit. The table is silent around him, neither Ilya or his agent saying a word despite the buzz of the arena.

At Shane’s table, Yuna’s eyes occasionally flick towards Ilya, running over him with her eyebrows furrowed. She’s probably going over his stats in her head. She’s probably trying to gauge what makes him the superstar and her son the second thought.

Shane keeps his face blank. Only his pulse in his wrist betrays the thoughts running through his mind, as he wishes, like he’s done so many times before, that he could cut himself wide open and show his mom how much he’d tried.

But no matter what he offers, he knows that no part of himself can replace the fact that someone else’s name will be called before her son’s.

When the name is eventually called, it’s said with a smile on the announcer’s face. Shane hears the words from outside his body.

“The Brooklyn Scouts are proud to select first overall from Boston University, Ilya Rozanov.”

Shane can’t help but look over at his mom. She’s looking across at Ilya with her hands clasped in her lap, her face blank. But Shane can see the slight twitch in her jaw and the way that she has to pull her hands apart so that she can join in with the clapping.

Look at me, Shane thinks again. Look at me and tell me that it doesn't matter.

His mother doesn't look at him, of course. She's too busy looking at Ilya Rozanov's name written across the screen.

Ilya Rozanov: first overall. The words are there, branded into the screen.

Shane glances down at his lap for a moment. The cameras are watching him, so he raises his head up to look at Ilya at a nearby table, studying the smile on his face and his eyes that are very slightly widened.

Ilya looks frightened, just a tiny bit, Shane thinks. Maybe no one else can see it, but Shane knows that there’s something afraid in that expression as Ilya keeps his gaze away from the cold eyes of his father.

How simple it would be to hate Ilya. To hate the man that stole his dream from him and smirked at Shane like he was so much better the first day Shane entered their dorm.

Instead, when he looks at Ilya, Shane sees the fear that had been in Ilya’s eyes when he talked about his father. He hears the way that Ilya’s heart had begun to beat more quickly under Shane’s ear as he recalled the bears that his father had shot in Russia. Shane knows that as much as he tries, he’ll never return to that simple hatred of Ilya. He’ll always see the man that had shared a part of himself with Shane, the man that Shane had shared a part of himself with, too.

So maybe Shane’s eyes are a little glassy as he looks at Ilya, at the thought of what he’s lost. But maybe he lets himself smile, too. Just a little.

Amongst the heavy clapping, Ilya’s agent pulls him into a hug whilst his father stands nearby. His expression is unchanged and his back is held rigidly upright, those pale eyes never once looking at his son.

When Ilya heads up to the stage with his agent, he walks past Shane’s table, and, for just a moment, his eyes flick towards Shane. They’re wide and the exact shade of blue that Shane remembers. Ilya shakes the hands of the Scouts’ staff, and turns to look over the crowd as he stands on the stage, his face held in a smile for the camera. His eyes flick towards Shane again, just for a moment. They’re as blank as Shane has ever seen them.

Soon Ilya’s leaving the stage, and the New York Admirals’ representative is stepping up. Shane clasps his hands together, runs one thumb over the other as he listens to the words. He can feel the cameras on him, projecting his image to the entire nation, so he holds his face still as his hands move beneath the table. His heart beats faster, pounding against his chest.

The representative is speaking, saying something about this year’s draft that Shane can hardly register as his pulse thrums in his ears. The man pauses for a second.

“The New York Admirals are proud to select second overall from Boston University, Shane Hollander.”

Shane doesn’t remember much of what happens after that—just the tight hugs of his parents and the rough hand of the Admirals’ GM as he shakes Shane’s hand on the stage. He remembers smiling for the cameras as he wears their jersey and hat, and the stilted conversation he makes at dinner that night with the leadership of his new team, his mom sat next to him.

Before he knows it, the rest of the summer is passing in a blur of training, regimented meals and meetings with the team.

Soon, the ground is falling away underneath him as his plane takes off for New York.

Chapter 14

On the first day of training camp, Shane meets the Admirals’ captain, Scott Hunter. He strolls up to Shane in the changing room before their first practice, and Shane stands up to offer him a smile and shake his hand.

Scott’s quiet, reserved in a way that only adds to the influence that he has over the room. It’s clear in the way that each player on the team looks towards Scott before they step out onto the ice.

Shane offers to help in any way he can, saying the things that he knows rookies should say. The other rookies chime in too, and they all end up clearing up the pucks at the end of practice.

The other rookies are nice, most of them a year or two older than Shane. They sometimes chat about the team or go out for dinner together, but most nights Shane finds himself alone back in his hotel room. It’s fine, though. It’s what he’d expected. There aren’t many rookies fresh out of the AHL that want to be friends with a second overall pick whose leg starts jumping under the table when they go out for dinner.

Shane's used to it. He learned long ago that Shane Hollander is best consumed in short exchanges and mutual smiles.

“You got a plan for where you’re gonna live?” Scott asks Shane on the third day of training camp as they walk out to the parking lot after practice.

“I’m just in a hotel right now, so I’ll probably stay there until I can find somewhere.”

“Right. I was actually just talking with the GM, and we both agree that it could be good for you to live with me this year. You’re a talented kid and he’s keen that I help you develop that skill. How does that sound?”

Shane glances across at Scott, running his eyes over the blank expression on Scott’s face. He knows it’s normal for rookies to live with a vet in their first year. But still—does Scott think he's a liability? That he's someone that needs to be watched? “Yeah, that’s—that sounds good. Thank you. I’m really grateful," he says anyway.

He moves into Scott’s spare room before the start of the regular season; he decorates his room with three pucks stacked on the desk, like Ilya did, back in BU. That first night, in the cold silence of the suburbs, he can see the silhouette of the pucks on his desk. He wonders if Ilya has done the same in his new apartment. And then Shane rolls out of bed and tucks the pucks away in a drawer.

That first night, Scott cooks chicken for them both, Shane helping with the chopping next to him as Scott asks him about growing up in Canada. His eyes trace over the steady movements of Scott's hands, putting cream in the sauce, salt on the chicken, adding random seasonings that Shane doesn’t recognise. Scott Hunter eats like that? He eats all those calories and chemicals?

Shane's silent, watching Scott's movements, and then Scott glances over and smiles. "All good?" he asks, and Shane nods. Their conversation returns to safe topics, to hockey and Canada and coaches. It continues when Shane's heart thrums in his chest as he picks up his fork and takes the first bite.

“You like it?” Scott asks, his eyes flicking up to Shane.

“Yeah, it’s—um, really good. Thank you.”

Scott nods, continuing with a funny story about his own rookie season, when he’d nearly been late to his first ever game when his car broke down on the way to the arena. Shane smiles at all the right points, and Scott waits for Shane to finish his food, never once asking him why it’s taking him so long to eat a simple piece of chicken with rice. He just picks Shane’s plate up with a smile when they’re both finished, Shane scrambling up next to him to offer to do the dishes.

Each night, Shane opens his text thread with Ilya and scrolls back through the few messages they’d sent each other when they were at BU. It's just telling Ilya to vacuum, or when practice was. Each text full of empty words. But still, he reads each one a thousand times, like he might be able to hear Ilya's voice in the words.

Shane thinks about Ilya’s mother and father, and whether Ilya’s rookie season is better than his own. He thinks about how much better it would be if he was still playing with Ilya. Playing centre feels strange, now; he still looks up and expects to see Ilya there, next to him. He finds himself comparing his line-mates to Ilya, narrowing his eyes as they miss a shot that Ilya would've scored a hundred times over, when they're not there when Shane looks up to make a pass.

In December of Shane’s rookie season, when the team is heading back to their hotel rooms after morning practice, Shane hears the faint snickers of his teammates behind him in the elevator. It's better than the hyena-like laughs of his teammates at BU, at least. He swallows and ignores them as he normally does, stepping out onto his floor.

The stuff from his and his roommate’s hotel room is littered across the corridor: the mattresses are lying against the wall, the armchairs sitting in the middle of the corridor, the desk from their room upside down on the floor. Raucous cheers echo behind him from his teammates; Shane forces his face into a smile as something twists in his stomach. He wants to press his back against the wall, to stop them cackling behind him and slapping his back, to fold into himself and make them go away.

They walk away down the corridor, eventually, still laughing.

It’s a funny prank, Shane tells himself as he stands in the deserted corridor, looking at the stuff spread across the floor. It's funny, really.

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, pushes his teeth into it to try and hold back the tears that are prickling at his eyes. He wants to laugh at himself, too: after all these years, he should be used to this sort of thing. It's a part of hockey, and Shane Hollander is nothing if not hockey.

He spends the next two hours pulling the heavy mattresses and all the clothes in their suitcases back into the hotel room by himself. His roommate is nowhere to be seen. After half an hour he finds sweat is sticky on his forehead, his sleeves pulled up and his face red as hotel guests periodically walk past, looking at him under the too-bright lights of the corridor that leave him nowhere to hide. They aim sympathetic glances at him like he's a child left without their mother.

He starts to tug the heavy desk through the door and it catches on the doorframe with a scraping noise. He tugs at it harder and harder, something squeezing at his chest, his arms aching from practice in the gym.

“You alright?” A voice asks from behind Shane.

He jumps, turning round to see Scott Hunter watching him with that serious face he always has. Of fucking course.

“Yeah, yeah. Just, you know, clearing up after the prank.” Shane’s mouth does something weird as he tries to force it into a grin. It was funny. Really fucking funny. It really makes him feel like a part of the team, now.

His teammates’ cackling laughter echoes in his ears.

“Did the guys do this?”

“Oh—yeah.”

“Where’s your roomie? He’s supposed to help too. You shouldn’t be left to do this by yourself.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it, I can do it. I'm nearly done, anyway.”

“Let me help you, kid,” Scott says, already pulling an armchair back into the room. "These pranks are the worst, eh?" he says.

Shane huffs out a smile in return.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Scott murmurs to Shane after the team dinner that night. “They’re supposed to help you guys out after doing something like that.”

“It’s okay,” Shane smiles.

After that, things become a little less awkward between them. Shane helps Scott with cooking each night when they’re in New York, discussing hockey and the city and whatever else crosses their minds. And maybe Scott looks at Shane a little funny when he bites his lip as he looks at dinner, or takes out his app to log the nutritional information with slightly trembling hands.

But Scott never says anything. He just waits for Shane to finish with that serious expression on his face, smiling softly when Shane finishes his food.

The first game against the Brooklyn Scouts is early in the season, and Shane doesn’t see Ilya until they’re on the ice for warmups. Ilya nods at Shane as they skate past one another, and does it again as they line up for a face-off. Shane’s smile is close-lipped in return as he tries to figure out what Ilya means by it, whether he’s happy to see Shane or just nodding out of politeness.

Ilya nods at Shane again after he’s slotted the puck into the back of the Admirals’ net, skating past Shane on the bench. Soon after, Shane gets a goal of his own and does the same thing to Ilya. If this is the only way they can talk, then Shane’s gonna take the opportunity with both hands.

In the end, the Admirals lose in overtime. Microphones press into Shane’s face in the changing rooms afterwards.

“Rozanov told us before the game that he’s going to score forty goals this season. What’s your response to that?”

“I—um, good for him, I guess.”

“How many goals do you think you’ll score?”

Shane pauses for a moment, looking down at his legs for a second. “Forty-one.”

After the media leaves, Shane opens his phone to his texting thread with Ilya. He stares at the date of the last text—nine months ago, when Shane told Ilya to vacuum his side of the room.

Shane opens the keyboard.

He pulls his lip between his teeth; it’s not a big deal, sending a text, and it’s not starting anything at all. It’s just exchanging a few words between ex-roommates. It’d be weird if they didn’t, right?

‘Forty goals?’ Shane types out, his finger lingering on each key. He runs his eyes over the text a few times, unsure what he’s looking for.

Shane presses send, throws his phone into his bag and heads for the showers with his heart pounding in his chest.

‘Liar told you that. I said fifty goals,’ reads Ilya’s text when Shane gets home. He’d waited until he was alone in his room to open the message, holding his phone close to his chest on the journey back as anticipation ran under his skin.

Shane smiles as he looks at the screen. It’s illuminating his face in the low light of his room, and he can’t help but lay his head back against his pillow as he stares up at the ceiling, holding the phone close to his chest.

He hadn’t heard Ilya’s voice at all in their game today, but he can hear the way that Ilya would say the words of the text if they were together again, the way that his lips would move round each word. If things were like they used to be.

The next text comes a month later, just before the Admirals’ second game against the Scouts.

‘We will beat you tomorrow,’ Ilya’s written. Shane grins down at the message where he’s sat on the couch, Scott across from him as they watch a movie together.

“What’s got you so smiley?” Scott asks, glancing over at Shane with his eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” Shane blurts, his cheeks reddening.

‘I don’t think so,’ Shane replies later that night in the safety of his room.

When the game comes, the Admirals beat the Scouts 3-2 in overtime. Shane scores the winning goal, his eyes flicking across to Ilya as his teammates embrace him on the ice. Ilya’s eyes meet Shane’s once before they move away, and Shane is left breathless, the arms of his teammates wrapped around him.

‘What were you saying about that win?’ Shane texts Ilya after the game. He feels drunk on it, almost, in the knowledge that Ilya is there on the other side of his phone.

‘Next time,’ Ilya replies.

The texts continue like that as their rookie seasons progress. They’re sporadic and joking and never a full conversation. But Shane holds those texts close to his chest as the Admirals attempt their rebuild through loss after loss, when the rookies around him ruffle Shane’s hair but won’t have a conversation with him.

In the All-Star break, Rose comes to visit for Shane’s birthday. She stays in a hotel near Scott’s house whilst Scott goes on some expensive vacation to Cabo, and insists that they go to some fancy cocktail bar in the city the night that Shane turns nineteen.

“You should wear some too,” she tells Shane as she gets ready in his bedroom, leaning into the mirror to apply something glittery to her eyelids.

“Makeup?” Shane asks from where he’s standing in the mirror of the bathroom, pushing his hair around on his head so that it’s not falling over his eyes. It's not cropped so short any more.

“Yeah, it’d look good.”

“I don’t—I’m an MLH player,” he laughs. “Just cause of the—the gay stuff…” he trails off, his voice faint as he walks back into his bedroom where Rose is frowning at him.

“Hey, it’s not cause of the gay stuff, okay? I just think it would suit you. I don’t want to pressure you though. Just an option.”

Shane runs his eyes over her expression. He doesn’t think she’d make a joke like that. She wouldn’t. But he can’t help the habit of thinking that she’s going to burst into laughter at the thought of Shane…doing that.

“Can I—see it?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure. This is like a glittery eyeshadow.” She shows him something gold in a palette.

Shane runs his eyes over it, his throat held tight. “People would see, though.”

“No one’s gonna recognise you in New York, don’t worry. And it’s really not too visible. Look.”

She closes her eyes to show Shane the glittery gold on her eyelid. It’s a nice colour. Ilya would probably call it pretty. Maybe Shane would too.

“Just a little bit, maybe. Just for my birthday,” he says, his heart doing something funny in his chest. If the guys on the team knew—

“Okay, close your eyes,” Rose says, placing a little bit of the product onto his eyelids with her finger. “Very pretty,” she says when she pulls away.

Shane looks in the mirror. It’s—it’s subtle, hardly visible. But it makes something flutter in his chest, the idea that he’s wearing makeup. It’s really nothing at all, but the way it contrasts the darkness of his hair, the way that it makes his skin look more golden—it’s nice. Pretty.

Maybe he can wear it just for tonight.

“You want me to be your wingwoman, tonight?” Rose asks when they step out of the door.

Shane shakes his head immediately. A gay hockey player isn’t okay anywhere. Not in Canada and not in the US. Not even in New York.

Shane wonders if Ilya hooks up with any men, here. He definitely hooks up with women, like all hockey players do. Ilya probably still hooks up with Svetlana, and probably with lots of others, Shane thinks as he steps out into the cold of the night, his jacket wrapped around him.

He wonders if Ilya ever thinks about Shane when he fucks people.

Probably not.

The fluttering feeling that Shane got when he put on the makeup lingers in his chest throughout the evening as they order cocktails in the dimly-lit bar. It makes him want to do something else, to push the boundaries a little further.

He orders things without checking the calories, only keeping a rough count of the amount of sugar he’s had. He drinks more alcohol than he would ever normally allow himself, as he and Rose laugh at their secluded table. He lets his face drop from where it’s normally held tight, relaxing into a smile.

They analyse each person that comes in, whispering about their outfits and their hair with hushed laughter.

“He’s so cute,” Rose whispers to Shane when a tall, dark-haired man with a beard enters.

“What?” Shane laughs. “No.” He can feel the alcohol softening everything around him, the sweetness still lingering on his lips. It makes the world a little less scary and his words a little less restrained.

“How about him, then?” Rose asks, nodding her head at some man that’s just entered the bar.

He’s got curly blond hair, with a muscular build that almost resembles Ilya’s. But his lips don’t have the same elegant curve as Ilya’s, and his smile is much too restrained. It’s not like the glittering smirk that Ilya has, the one that makes everyone in the room want to grin back at him.

But—all things considered. “He’s—yeah, he’s not bad,” Shane says, his voice low. His hands are trembling a little at the admission.

When twelve o’clock comes and Shane’s birthday arrives, Rose hugs him tightly and tells Shane she’s proud of him. And if Shane’s eyes glisten a little at the words—well, it doesn’t really matter. She’s his friend. Maybe his best friend, even.

He wants to say them out loud, to hear them as if that would confirm it. A best friend. He takes another sip of his passion-fruit cocktail, smiling breathlessly. He wonders how the gold on his eyelids looks under the light.

The noise of the bar continues around him, low music and various voices all mingling into one. No one cares that he's wearing makeup, here. No one is thinking about stats and strength-training and performance-focussed diets.

The evening goes on like that, with little shared laughs, and by the time that Shane drops Rose off at her hotel, they’re stumbling around a little and Shane’s head feels soft in a way that it never has before.

When Shane gets back to Scott’s, the first thing he does is reach an arm into the back of his closet and root around for the t-shirt he knows is tucked away there.

He can feel it by touch alone now, recognising the cheap polyester under his fingers, distinct from his sports tops and 100% cotton shirts. Shane’s not even sure why he keeps it back there—it’s not like Scott would realise who the t-shirt belongs to. Belonged to.

Tonight, he strips off his shirt and puts Ilya’s t-shirt on, taking off his pants so that he’s left in his boxers and the top when he slides into bed.

The covers feel cold, more distinct on his skin than he remembers, probably from the alcohol that’s making his head a little fuzzy. Shane smiles to himself at the thought, at the sensation of the cold, smooth sheets running over his skin.

He slides further down so that he’s lying on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling.

He’s not even got ready for bed yet, but—it’s something about the way that the sheets move over his skin, the way that his mental resistance seems to have floated away this evening. He can’t help but slide a hand down, over his chest covered by the t-shirt, down to cup himself through his boxers.

He exhales softly, pushing into his hand a little as he starts to harden under the touch. It’s soft and gentle, like the way that Ilya had touched him that night in the hotel room. Like he was something to be treasured rather than some machine built for hockey.

Shane’s other hand runs over the t-shirt, tracing a finger over the hem at the bottom before it slides underneath, brushing upwards and over his abs.

His breathing thins as he wonders if this is how Ilya pictured him doing this, when he asked if Shane jerked off in his t-shirt. Maybe he pictured Shane face-down, pushing his face into the t-shirt to chase Ilya’s scent as he jerked himself off. Or maybe he pictured Shane like he is now, sliding a hand underneath the t-shirt, or—

Maybe he pictured Shane pushing his dildo into him, moaning as it pushed deep inside him with the top rucked up around his chest.

Shane slides his legs up, brushing his feet along the soft sheets and planting them on the mattress. His hand creeps downwards, down past his cock to brush over his hole through his boxers.

His finger lingers there, an almost invisible touch.

A thought slithers into his mind—one that’s exciting and scary and he can’t push away. His dildo is sitting at the back of his closet, hidden in a box there.

He can’t do it. Using a dildo in Scott Hunter’s house, the captain of his team. The captain of team USA.

But—Ilya’s smirk would be glittering if he knew; he would get that hungry look in his eyes and push Shane back against the bed because he needed him so fucking badly. It’s obscene in a way that makes Shane’s heart race and his dick throb, and he’s a little bit tipsy and this shouldn’t happen but he needs it so fucking bad.

Shane gets up off his bed and reaches into the back of his closet again, feeling around for that box hidden at the back. He pulls the dildo out with trembling hands, and settles back on his bed with his breath unsteady.

He takes the dildo out, feeling its cold, silicone texture in his hands and looking at the size of it. It would probably feel like nothing, now that he’s had Ilya’s cock inside of him. Ilya was so fucking deep, he was so full with Ilya. This is hardly comparable.

But maybe Shane could just get a taste, get a reminder of what it had felt like when Ilya had pushed into him with that breathy groan, when he had brushed Shane’s hair out of his face to ask if it was good. Maybe he can just get a reminder of it, just to keep him satisfied.

Shane closes his eyes as he thinks back to the sensation of it. God—there’s nothing like it, nothing so good as the way that Ilya had looked into his eyes with every thrust deep inside. If he could go back to that moment and feel it all again, he would do it a thousand times over.

Shane sits up quickly against the headboard and takes out the lube. His hands are trembling as he coats the dildo, as he slips off his boxers and presses a finger inside himself with no preamble.

The pressure is almost nothing, nowhere near enough, and soon he’s pressing three fingers inside, tipping his head back in pleasure and running his other hand up his stomach. It’s like Ilya had done, that time in the dorm room, when he’d told Shane to watch his own highlights with that smirk in his voice.

Shane feels now like he did then, feels like he’s pretty or beautiful or something. If Ilya saw him now, saw the fingers inside of himself and the way that his muscles have grown and the glitter on his eyelids—maybe Ilya would jerk himself off too, would remember how it felt to push inside of Shane. Maybe he’d feel like a piece of him is missing, the same way that Shane does.

Shane takes the dildo, pushes it inside himself with a low moan, arching his back a little and raising his legs to get it deep inside. He thrusts it in and out, losing himself to the slow, building pleasure—

His phone lights up where it’s sat on the nightstand, and he reaches out to turn it over—

And there’s Ilya’s name with a text beneath: ‘Happy Birthday.’

Shane pauses, a burst of thrill running through him. He picks up the phone with his heart unsteady and the other hand holding the dildo inside of him.

With one hand he texts Ilya: ‘Thank you.’ His breath catches in his throat as he presses send, his heart thumping as he feels the way that the dildo is stretching him open.

Three little dots appear, rising and falling, appearing and then disappearing as Shane watches his phone with bated breath.

‘Fuck anyone tonight?’ Ilya writes at last.

Shane tips his head back against the pillows, letting out a long exhale as he holds the phone in his hand. He pulls the dildo out of himself with a breathless noise before he replies.

‘Why would I—’ he starts to type. He pauses; backspaces, biting his lip. ‘I don’t—’ he tries again.

Two minutes go by like that, with the screen held in front of his face and his head a little fuzzy as he tries to work his hands on the keys. Why would Ilya even think that Shane would be fucking anyone? Shane said that he wouldn’t fuck anyone, and he doesn’t go back on his promises like that. Did Ilya forget already?

Maybe he could just ask Ilya directly.

He’s pressing ‘call’ before he can backtrack.

“Hollander?” Ilya’s voice comes through the phone before the first ring is finished.

“I said I wasn’t going to fuck anyone,” Shane says, his words a little slurred. “Did you forget?”

“I—no. I didn’t forget.” Ilya’s voice is low and a little rough, the way it sometimes gets late at night.

“I didn’t fuck anyone, like I said I wouldn’t. I’m—celibate now, or whatever the word is.”

There’s a slight pause from Ilya before he replies. Maybe an exhale of breath that sounds like a laugh, but Shane can’t be sure.

“What did you do, then?”

“I went to a bar with Rose.”

Ilya pauses again before he replies. This time his voice is a little less soft. “How much did you drink? Do you feel okay?”

“Two cocktails and a glass of wine. I feel fine. Good, actually. Do you wanna know something?”

“Know what?”

“I’m wearing glitter on my eyelids. Cause Rose says it looks pretty.”

Ilya definitely exhales through the phone this time. It’s long and drawn out and it would make Shane laugh if his hands weren’t trembling at the thought that Ilya might not like it. Maybe he thinks it’s gay and weird, like the guys on the hockey team would.

Which wouldn’t even make sense. Ilya knows he’s gay. But maybe he doesn’t like that type of gay. The ones that do…girly stuff.

“Rose said that?”

“Yeah.”

“You wore it because Rose wanted you to?”

“No, I wore it cause it’s my birthday. I don’t know why I mentioned it. It’s not a big deal.” Shane turns so that he’s lying on his side, pulling his legs up towards his chest.

“No, sorry. Just—don’t be pressured to do it. I mean, you know that anyway.”

“Yeah.” Shane’s voice is quiet as he pulls his lip between his teeth.

“Fuck, Hollander. You probably look so fucking hot with it. What colour?” Shane’s lips part at the admission.

“Gold,” Shane breathes. “And kinda glittery. Just—just like a little bit. But I like it.”

“Yeah? You look pretty?”

“I—” Shane falters over the words, silence hanging between them for a few seconds.

“You can say it, Hollander.”

“No—I, um.” Shane’s voice catches as he listens to Ilya’s breath, heavy through the phone.

“Da, Hollander,” Ilya says, his voice low and rough. It makes something flutter in Shane’s stomach, the way that Ilya’s voice deepens when he speaks Russian.

“I look pretty. With it,” Shane says at last, his voice breathy. Ilya thinks he looks pretty. The thought makes him a little dizzy.

“Yeah, Hollander. Fuck.”

Silence stretches between them, punctuated only by their heavy breaths. Shane listens to each one of Ilya’s, hears the way that they’re a little strained. He wonders what Ilya would think if he knew that Shane was wearing his top.

“Happy Birthday, Shane Hollander,” Ilya says at last.

“Thank you,” Shane says softly.

He should disconnect the call but he can’t bring himself to remove the phone from where it’s pressed tightly to his ear. The silence continues, their breathing deep in each other’s ears.

“Bye, Rozanov,” Shane says at last.

“Bye, Hollander.” There’s a beat of silence before the phone lets out a shrill beep that cuts through the heavy silence of Shane’s room.

He stares at the white expanse of ceiling above him as he drops the phone onto the mattress.

Ilya thinks he’s pretty.

Shane clicks onto the camera app and raises his phone above his head so that his face is in view.

The faint shimmer of gold is still there across his eyelids, and his lips are a little red from where they’ve been bitten. Shane wouldn’t go so far as saying he looks good. But—he kind of likes how he looks today, and—Ilya thinks he looks pretty.

Shane angles the phone a little so that the Adidas logo of Ilya’s t-shirt is visible in the camera.

He raises a trembling finger to take a photo before he can stop himself.

The phone shutters and the picture is taken, and Shane presses send to Ilya with a jolt of anticipation in his chest. It feels risky, a little thrilling, in a way that Shane hasn’t felt in a long time.

‘Fuck, Hollander. So fucking pretty,’ is Ilya’s reply, just a few seconds later.

Shane wakes up the next morning with a headache that worsens as he reads through his texts with Ilya. That photo was one big, stupid risk.

He groans as he rolls out of bed, running through his usual routine before he sits down for breakfast at Scott’s dining table. He sets his oatmeal and fruit in front of him and opens up his phone to check the news from the all-star game.

He clicks onto the news outlet whilst he chews a mouthful.

There, right at the top of the feed, is the headline. ‘Revealed: The Tragic Backstory of MLH Rookie, Ilya Rozanov’.

Chapter 15

Shane stands up from his seat. His eyes scan over the headline.

Revealed? Did Ilya—surely he didn’t tell anything to the reporters?

Shane scrolls down to the article. His breath is caught in his throat, his hands gripping the phone too tightly.

An anonymous source has shared the tragic backstory of MLH superstar rookie and 2008 first-overall pick, Ilya Rozanov.

Rozanov’s mother, until now a figure hidden in the shadows, is revealed to have passed away by suicide in 2003 when Rozanov was just twelve. The source has said that he found his mother’s body shortly after her death.

Rozanov has been involved in other rumors surrounding Russia, including controversies with his former Russian coaches. He has frequently declined to speak in Russian in interviews—no wonder he’s reluctant to reveal a part of himself which holds such trauma.

An incredible achievement for a boy with such a tragic background to have made it so far in the hockey world. Don’t be fooled by his charismatic, self-confident exterior—he’s a man who has been through a lot and will no doubt contribute enormously to the game and the league.

Shane’s hand trembles where he’s holding the phone, his eyes scanning each word.

What the fuck.

There’s no way that Ilya would share this with the media. Not the Ilya who had spoken about his mom with his voice raw and soft as if the memories hurt to recall. Not the Ilya who hadn’t been able to look anywhere but up at the ceiling as he talked about her.

Shane pulls up his text thread with Ilya with clumsy, shaking hands.

Suicide. The word sticks in Shane's head, loud and sharp.

His mind flicks back to Ilya after their loss against Canada, when he had pushed Shane out of the hotel room with wide, afraid eyes. When he had laid on his bed with a cigarette in his hand and his eyes empty as he stared at the ceiling.

‘Are you okay?’ Shane types out. He shakes his head, backspaces. ‘I saw the article. How are you—’

He closes his eyes in frustration. It all sounds wrong, not understanding or kind or empathetic enough. Suicide. The word replays in his mind over and over; the image of twelve-year-old Ilya with his dead mother's body.

Ilya might be alone right now.

Shane lifts the phone up again, pulls up the chat with Ilya and presses ‘call’.

The buzzing of his phone fills the otherwise silent kitchen as he paces up one side of the kitchen, then back down the other. He brushes his hair out of his eyes again, scuffs his foot against the floor.

Glances at his breakfast and then back down at the phone. The oatmeal feels heavy in his stomach.

“Hollander?” Ilya’s voice is soft, quieter than normal.

“Ilya,” Shane breathes. “I—um, I saw it. The article. I just wanted to see—if you’re okay.”

Ilya’s silent for a moment before he speaks.

“I’m fine, Hollander.”

“Is anyone with you? Do you want me to—could I—”

“You can’t do anything to change it, Hollander. It's done.” Ilya's voice is cold, detached.

“I know—I just. I’m sorry the article got released.” Shane stands next to the window, his eyes flicking up to look out across the city. Ilya’s out there, somewhere. Close enough to touch. Close enough for Shane to help him. “I want to help you. I can’t imagine what it’s like—but. I don’t want you to be sad.” Shane’s voice breaks a little at the final word, and he breathes shakily through his nose, clinging onto each sound Ilya makes through the phone.

Ilya’s silent through the phone. Shane chews on his lower lip.

“I just sent you my address. If you—want to come.” Ilya says at last.

The line beeps as Ilya disconnects the call. Shane reaches for his keys.

When Shane knocks on the door of Ilya’s apartment, he’s got a bottle of the best Russian vodka he could find held in his hands. So what if he’d stashed it in his room in case of an occasion like this?

A few minutes of heavy silence stretch out until the door is swinging open and Ilya’s standing there, in front of him.

His face is blank as he looks Shane up and down, carefully devoid of emotion. Shane's not sure what he'd expected: anger, maybe, or a furious sadness that he can take out on Shane. But Ilya has never done what Shane expected once in his life. The corner of Ilya's mouth starts curving up into that old smirk as he sees the vodka. It's the kind of smirk that doesn’t quite reach Ilya's eyes—and Shane knows now that that smirk always means something else.

Shane offers a smile in return anyway. Ilyas’ smiles have always been infectious.

“Vodka?” Ilya asks, glancing down at the bottle in Shane's hands.

“You like vodka. I thought you might want some. Was that—?”

Ilya smirks again. Shane wants to take a step closer, to tell Ilya that he doesn't need to smirk like that with him any more. Shane knows Ilya. Ilya knows him. They've always seen too much of each other. Instead, Shane lets Ilya take the bottle from his hands.

“It’s good," Ilya says. "Just—unconventional? Is good vodka, though.”

“Oh. Um—thank you.”

Shane follows Ilya inside to an empty kitchen. The lights are low, the curtains drawn and a stench of cigarettes sits heavily in the air. It’s sparsely decorated and a little messy. If this was their dorm room, Shane would tell Ilya to vacuum and stop smoking. But it's not, of course.

Shane stands at the kitchen island, grasping the marble countertop as he looks at Ilya. “I like your apartment,” he blurts, searching for something to say.

Ilya hums in response, putting the vodka away in a cabinet. “Didn’t want to live with a vet. You live with Hunter?”

“Yeah.”

There's a moment of heavy silence before Ilya speaks. “You two do anything?” he says, turning around to face Shane. “Sex,” he adds after a moment, with a jerking wave of his hand. His throat is held tight. But his expression, as it always is, is perfectly blank.

Stop, Shane wants to say. You can tell me, really. And then Ilya's words hit him; his head snaps up. “What? I wouldn’t—he wouldn’t either. What—what even makes you think that? Why do you even think he likes men?”

“Oh, no reason,” Ilya says. There's a wry half-smile, half-grimance on his face as he glances down at the countertop. “Forget it. So no sex with that old man?”

“Of course not,” Shane frowns. Old man. Scott’s barely thirty. Not that Shane would ever think of him that way. He recoils a little at the thought. “But, um—how are you doing?” He asks, stumbling over the words.

“Fine.” Ilya’s smile falls as he looks back up at Shane.

“I’m really sorry the stuff with Irina got exposed. It’s awful.”

“It’s fine,” Ilya murmurs. “My brother won’t be taking my money any more, so.”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew it was only a matter of time until he did it. The journalist was offering a big pay-cheque. So he’s not getting more money from me,” Ilya laughs, looking back down at the countertop. The laugh is biting, unnatural on the blankness of Ilya's face.

“Your brother? I’m—”

“Stop apologising, Hollander. It's done.” Ilya moves around the countertop until he’s on the same side as Shane. "It's fine," he adds, he's trying to convince himself. "I don't want to talk about it."

“Yeah. I—”

Ilya moves closer still, Shane’s eyes tracing over Ilya’s body, over his face, studying the changes since the last time he’d been this close. Ilya's hair is a little longer, his skin a little more tanned. But otherwise he's the same as Shane remembers; he's still the same Ilya that's kept in all those memories that are locked away in his mind. Ilya steps closer until he and Shane are within touching distance, and lifts up a hand.

His thumb brushes over Shane’s lower lip, the skin soft and his touch gentle as their breaths turn shallow. A smell of cigarettes clings to Ilya, but Shane wants nothing more than to reach out and touch him anyway.

Ilya’s thumb moves upwards, brushing over Shane’s cheekbone and over his freckles as Shane stands stock-still, his lips parted.

“You cut your hair,” Ilya murmurs, brushing a strand out of Shane’s face. His breath is warm against Shane's cheek.

“Yeah,” Shane breathes, his eyes flicking across Ilya’s face as he tips his head back, just a little, as if he’s presenting himself for Ilya’s enjoyment.

“Pretty,” Ilya murmurs, his eyes flicking across Shane’s face.

Shane wants to cry. “Ilya,” he murmurs, his voice soft.

And then Ilya's arms are wrapping aound Shane like they're out of his control, pulling them together. Shane exhales sharply; feels the pressure of Ilya's body on his. He smells of cigarettes, like when they wrestled on the bed and Shane had almost cried in Ilya's arms.

You can cry in my arms, Shane wants to say. You don't have to pretend.

Time stretches out. Ilya’s heart is beating in his chest a little faster than normal. And then Ilya sinks further into Shane, wraps his arms tighter around him.

Shane slides his hand up Ilya’s back, over the softness of his t-shirt once, twice, before he moves it upwards to cup the back of Ilya’s head. He smooths his hand over Ilya’s hair, his touch gentle as a soft noise escapes Ilya.

Shane doesn’t know who moves first, but somehow, their lips are finding each other, pressing together with a feather-light touch. They stand like that with their arms around each other and their lips moving softly, both their eyes closed as they sink into the sensation of one another.

Ilya’s just as soft as Shane remembers, when he grasps Shane’s chin and tilts his head up to deepen the kiss. But far too soon Ilya clears his throat, his cheeks reddening. “Food,” he says, his voice a little scratchy as he moves around the counter. “Tuna melt?”

“Yeah—um. Okay. Thank you.” Shane can eat cheese, he tells himself. He’s past worrying about that, he tells himself, running his finger along the cuff of his hoodie.

Ilya opens the fridge, taking out a ginger ale and putting it on the counter for Shane.

Shane swallows tightly. Ilya remembered his favourite drink. It makes his chest feel funny and a little warm at the thought, but also—he hasn’t drunk it in months. It’s too many calories, too carbonated. Too many chemicals.

He glances at the can. The nutritional information is right there, the big, bold writing staring Shane in the face. 110 calories.

Ilya reaches out, turning the can around so that the calories are no longer visible. Shane watches his hand on the can. It reminds him of all those times that Ilya gave him ginger-ale before, after sex. When things were different. Ilya looks back up at Shane, his eyes scanning Shane’s face.

“You don’t want?” he asks.

“I just haven’t had one in a while. For health.” Ilya’s stare makes Shane duck his head. “But—I want to have one,” he says.

Ilya nods at the can as if he’s telling Shane to drink it, and Shane jerks his head in acknowledgement, picking it up to take a sip.

It’s good. And Ilya smiles at Shane before he turns around, so—that’s all that he cares about, really.

“You still seeing that psychologist?” Ilya asks as he puts the sandwiches in the toastie maker.

“No, not anymore.”

“Why? You don’t like her?”

Shane thinks back to that last appointment with her. The thing that she had asked him that had sat heavy on his mind, a weight that’s been pressing down on him since that first day of summer.

Ilya’s been so open with him. He’s shared painful memories with Shane and has had his own mother’s death broadcast to the media. Shane should share something with him, too. But—even the word, autism—it’s heavy enough just in Shane’s mind. He doesn’t even know if he could get his mouth to form the word.

Shane can’t tell Ilya. Not yet, not when the word seems so terrifying. Maybe not ever.

“No reason, really,” he says, looking down at the floor and shuffling his feet.

Ilya lets it go, leading them over to the couch and setting the tuna melts down in front of them. He sighs as he sits back against the cushions, his arms circling around Shane’s back to pull him close.

Shane can’t help but turn his head into Ilya’s shoulder, nuzzling into the soft skin there with his eyes shut. Ilya sighs above him, leaning his head back a little.

“It’s the anniversary of her death next week,” Ilya murmurs.

“Oh—are you gonna be in New York for it?”

“Yeah. Game in the evening,” Ilya murmurs, brushing his hand over Shane’s back. They’re silent for a moment before Ilya speaks again. “Would you—come over, on the day? Just for a bit?”

“Yeah—yeah, of course.” Shane’s voice is a little breathless as he glances up at Ilya from where his head is tucked into Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya’s face is perfectly blank, and he leans forwards to grab a tuna melt, his eyes fixed away from Shane.

They eat in silence, Shane taking occasional sips of his ginger ale and Ilya of his coke.

“How’s Svetlana,” Shane asks at last, swirling his ginger ale around in the can as if his heart isn’t beating a little funny in his chest as he waits for Ilya to tell him about all the hookups they’ve probably had.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Ilya says through a mouthful of tuna melt. “She wanted to come and see me, after the article and stuff. But I told her to stay in Boston. She’s busy with her girlfriend at the moment.”

Shane sits up to look at Ilya. “Girlfriend?”

“Yeah, she’s bisexual. She told me about it, before I came to Boston. That’s how I heard it was even a thing.”

“Oh—that’s really nice, actually. Are you—” Shane clears his throat, averting his gaze so that he’s not looking at Ilya as he talks. “—still hooking up with her?”

“Oh—no.” Ilya doesn’t add anything else, just takes a sip of his coke.

Shane wants to ask about other women, about the men that Ilya might be seeing. The words sit in his mouth, but he can’t bring himself to say them, to hear the response that he doesn’t want to hear. That he’s just another one of Ilya’s hookups. Just another body.

So Shane says nothing. He tucks himself into Ilya’s collar bone again, nuzzling the skin there slightly. He hopes Ilya can’t tell what he’s doing—but the warmth and the smell of cigarettes cling to Ilya, and there’s something about it that’s just so intoxicating. Shane wants to stay there forever.

He can’t help but lean towards the side of Ilya’s neck, shifting where he’s pressed up against him. HIs body is twitchy and restless, and he wants to feel Ilya against his tongue, to press closer than physically possible.

He runs his lips along Ilya’s neck, along the muscle that runs up the side of it, feeling the way that Ilya tenses slightly under his touch.

Ilya leans his head back, giving Shane access to the long arch of his neck. Shane sucks on his Adam's apple, running a hand up Ilya’s side to cup a hand around the other side of his neck.

“Fuck,” he murmurs into Ilya’s skin.

Ilya’s breathing is rough above him, and Shane can feel the rhythm of his heart through his t-shirt, beneath where his bear tattoo is.

“Is it okay?” Shane asks, pulling back a little to run his eyes over Ilya’s face.

“Yeah, yeah, Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, running a hand up Shane’s back to hold him close.

Shane continues laving his tongue on the skin there, sucking with his eyes closed. He moves down Ilya’s body, pushing up Ilya’s t-shirt to press kisses to the skin, to run his hands over the curve of Ilya’s waist and the muscles of his stomach.

“You want me to—” Ilya starts.

“Let me take care of you,” Shane says, his voice a little breathless. “Please.”

“Fuck, Hollander. Okay.”

Shane moves down further to kneel between Ilya’s legs, running his hands over Ilya’s thighs, feeling the strength contained in the muscles there. He pulls down Ilya’s sweats, leaning forwards to press a kiss to the bulge of Ilya’s cock where it’s barely contained in his boxers, sucking the tip into his mouth.

He pulls back to look at the wet mark that his mouth has left, and—how did he think he could go without this? How did he think he could get by with just the memory of Ilya’s touch? Memory never was, never will be, enough.

He pulls Ilya’s cock into his mouth easily, pulling it deep inside. He wants to show Ilya how good he is at it, how much he’s improved from that very first time. He wants to show Ilya that he’s better than the others.

Ilya gasps above him, reaching down to brush the hair out of Shane’s eyes as his gaze remains fixed on Shane.

“So—so fucking good,” he says breathlessly.

Shane closes his eyes as he sucks Ilya deeper, losing himself in the weight of Ilya on his tongue and reaching a hand up to gently massage Ilya’s balls. Ilya makes a gasping sound from above him—and Ilya likes that, Shane can feel the way he gets harder in Shane’s mouth—and maybe Ilya would want—maybe Shane could—

“Can I finger you?” Shane asks breathlessly as he pulls off Ilya’s cock.

“What?”

“Can I finger you? If—um. If you want.”

Ilya’s eyes widen as he looks down at Shane, his eyes scanning over his face as if to gauge if Shane is being serious. His mouth curves upwards as if he’s about to laugh. “I don’t do that stuff. I’ve never, and like, I don’t. At all. That’s not—” Ilya laughs, tipping his head back against the couch. The laugh is unnatural and his eyes are looking upwards and away from Shane.

“Why?” Shane asks, his voice hoarse.

“I just don’t do that stuff, Hollander. That stuff’s not for me.” Ilya still won’t look down at him.

“Right.” Shane says. “Sorry.” He looks down at Ilya’s cock, at the way it’s softening already.

The sound of Ilya’s laughter echoes through his mind, the way that Ilya thought the idea of just a finger is laughable, below him. He knows Ilya doesn’t think less of him. But—something catches in his throat anyway.

Ilya doesn’t do that stuff. Butt stuff. Womanly stuff.

Ilya’s silent above Shane, and Shane—Shane knows what Ilya means. He’s not one of those gays, the ones that bottom and take it and shit.

All those times in the locker room when the guys had talked about fingering women echo through his mind. The way that the rest of the team would salivate and ruffle the person's hair like they've scored a goal. She opened her legs for him, they would laugh, and the locker room would cackle.

Shane breathes sharply through his nose, softly out through his mouth. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter to Shane. Shane likes taking it. Loves it, actually.

But Ilya still thinks that getting fingered is something to laugh at. So much that Ilya’s never even tried it.

“Hollander?” Ilya asks from above him.

“Oh—yeah, sure,” Shane says, his voice hoarse. Ilya’s cock is mostly soft beneath him now.

Does the idea of getting fingered by Shane turn him off that much?

“Can I ride you?” Shane asks.

“Yeah,” Ilya says, his eyes a little wide. He runs his eyes over Shane’s face before he gets up and leads Shane to his bedroom.

Shane’s fingers are rough and perfunctory as he opens himself up, straddling Ilya. He pushes Ilya’s hand away when he tries to help. “It’s quicker,” he mutters.

He knows that Ilya needs someone close right now, after the article’s release. But the sound of Ilya’s laughter is lingering in his head. It makes him want to shy away, wants to make him stretch himself faster, rougher, to feel the way that his rim burns as he forces three fingers inside.

“Hey, Hollander, hey—” Ilya says when Shane pushes the third finger inside himself. Ilya sits up from where he’d been lying under Shane’s straddled legs. “Slower,” he says.

“Let me, please.” Shane’s voice is hoarse as he fucks his fingers in and out. He needs more lube, and it kinda hurts and he wants to wrap his arms around himself to hide how cut open he feels.

“Hey, Hollander, stop,” Ilya says, grabbing Shane’s arm. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“It’s fine, okay? Just let me do this.”

Ilya stops for a moment, running his eyes over Shane’s face before he pulls Shane’s hands together, holding his wrists in a firm grip.

“Tell me, what’s wrong?”

Shane’s eyes meet Ilya’s. They’re wide and glistening and he can’t look at Ilya, and his breathing is unsteady.

Ilya lifts his other hand up to brush Shane’s hair out of his face.

“I’m sorry,” Shane blurts, his voice wavering and shaky. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Ilya murmurs, pulling Shane in towards himself, nestling his head into his chest as Shane lets out a shaky exhale. “No apologising.”

“I should be the one comforting you,” he mutters into Ilya’s chest. “You’ve been so good to me.”

“It’s okay,” Ilya says, brushing his hand up over Shane’s back to cup his neck. His touch is so gentle, so caring. So much more than Shane deserves.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know. I just—I just missed you.” Ilya’s silent as he waits for Shane to continue. “And. The fingering thing.”

“You really want to finger me?” Ilya’s voice is soft, delicate, almost.

“Only if you want it, obviously. I just feel like I’m gross for liking being the bottom or whatever. It’s stupid, but—”

“Fuck, Hollander, I’m sorry. I’ve just—never done it before.” Ilya keeps holding Shane’s face to his chest, his eyes up at the ceiling and his voice soft. He’s silent for a few moments before he continues. “But…I could try it, maybe. With you.” Ilya’s voice trails off into a whisper. “And—I’m sorry for laughing. I love the fact that you like it, Hollander. It’s fucking hot, you know?”

“I’m sorry, too,” Shane says, his voice breathless and a little teary. “But—if you ever want to do that, or never, then—I’m happy with anything. Anything we can do together.”

Ilya doesn’t say anything, just pulls Shane closer into himself.

“I’m sorry for being dramatic about it,” Shane mumbles, his face pressed between Ilya’s pecks. “I just feel, like—I have the womanly role, or whatever.”

“That’s not true. And anyway, what’s so wrong about a womanly role?”

Shane’s silent for a moment. “Nothing, I guess. Just—most people don’t think like that.”

“But I think like that, you know, Hollander? I don’t think you’re gross. I think you’re hot,” Ilya says.

"But—"

Ilya grasps Shane's chin, his fingers soft. "No buts. Tell me something you like that we haven't done. Distract me from the article."

Shane scans Ilya's face. "Tell me," Ilya murmurs. "Not a request, Hollander," he says. That expression is back on his face, the one that he gets when he's fucking Shane, so full of life it makes Shane want to die. He looks hungry. More than hungry. Shane can't pinpoint what it is. But it's a world away from that blank mask of a smirk.

Shane takes a breath. "Okay," he says. "I like... I like when we fuck I can’t think about anything, you know? Like—when you, um—fucked my face, that one time—hey,” Shane says when Ilya chuckles above him. “What?”

“Just cute,” Ilya laughs, his chest shaking with a little huff of laughter. “Carry on.”

Shane examines Ilya's expression. “Fine,” he grumbles at last. “Just—that one time when you did that, I felt like everything had floated away, kinda. More than any time before. Like I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

“Yeah?” Ilya says, resting his hand on Shane’s back. “You felt like that any other times?”

Shane pauses for a moment, shifting around in his spot in Ilya’s lap before he continues. “Actually, there was this one time kinda recently.”

“Tell me.”

“Okay, um—it was a couple of months ago, during Christmas, when I was home alone for a couple days. I woke up on a day that I normally jerk off—”

“What?” Ilya laughs. “You have a jerking off schedule?”

“Yes,” Shane frowns. “Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday.”

“You consult a jerking off specialist for that, Hollander?” Ilya laughs. Shane pulls back to look at the glittering grin across Ilya’s face. God, he’s missed it.

“Well I researched it, obviously. At the start of the season, actually. I wanted to find a schedule that was best for performance with the MLH schedule.”

Ilya tips his head back in laughter, his throat exposed. Shane watches the motion of Ilya’s Adam’s apple as he laughs. He wants to suck on it.

When Ilya’s gaze returns to Shane, Shane can see the way that Ilya’s trying to tame the beam on his face. The corner of his mouth twitches, and Shane can’t help but grin back. They stay like that for a beat, then two, before Ilya speaks again.

“That schedule works for you, then?”

“Yeah, it’s um—good. Consistent. I mean, it’s hard when I, um—get hard, and I’m not allowed to jerk off. But—”

Ilya’s eyes glitter again as he looks at Shane, that same wide, toothy grin across his face as his eyes stay fixed on Shane’s.

“Hey,” Shane says, smiling down at Ilya. “This is serious.” He tries to force his face into his most serious expression, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth anyway.

“Yes, very serious, Hollander. Sorry, continue with story.”

“So, I woke up on a jerking off day, and it was a rest day and I was home alone. And I was like—super horny, kinda. But the feeling of being hard was also—nice, I guess? Like I didn’t wanna get rid of the feeling straight away. So I thought I’d drag it out, you know—enjoy it. So I used my dildo—”

Ilya shifts beneath Shane, his lips parting as he waits for Shane to continue. Shane continues looking over Ilya’s shoulder as he resumes the story. He’s not sure he can get through this if he makes eye contact with Ilya.

“—but then when I was doing it, I decided to stop, like—just before I came. And then I did my yoga and breakfast and everything, but I was pretty much hard the whole time. But like—in a good way, you know?”

“Fuck, Hollander.” Ilya shifts again beneath Shane, and Shane—Ilya’s dick is kinda hard beneath him. He feels his cheeks heat up, forcing himself to stay still in Ilya’s lap.

“And then I did it again, a few more times but with my hand on my dick. And then again, but I—” Shane’s cheeks redden further. “—I did it with a plug inside of me.”

Before Shane knows what’s happening, Ilya’s arms are grasping Shane and he’s being rolled over, Ilya’s body caging him in on the bed.

“Hollander, fuck. A fucking plug?”

Shane doesn’t say anything.

“A butt plug?”

“Yes,” Shane says, running his eyes over Ilya’s face to try and gauge his reaction. He can feel Ilya’s cock digging straight into his thigh, but—he can’t be too sure.

“Keep talking,” Ilya says, his eyes wide. “Talk,” he says again when Shane takes too long.

“Well—that’s basically it,” Shane mumbles, his cheeks pink. “I just kept doing that all day, and then when I eventually came—you’re not gonna judge me, right?”

“Course not, Hollander.” Ilya’s voice is breathless and his dick is so fucking hard against Shane’s thigh and Shane wants it in his mouth again.

“I came from just, like, sitting on the dildo, basically. And I—” Shane lowers his voice. “I made myself keep my hands on the headboard, and just, like—rocked, basically. It was really hard, but—”

Shane waits for Ilya to laugh at the unintentional pun as he normally would, but he just continues looking at Shane with a ravenous look in his eyes.

“—it was so good when I came. Like, more intense than I’ve ever felt before. And I felt exactly like I did that one time with you, basically. Like—all floaty and like nothing mattered. So…yeah,” Shane adds when Ilya doesn’t say anything.

Ilya’s mouth is half open and he’s looking at Shane like—Shane doesn’t even know. He’s never been looked at like this before. Ilya looks like he’s about to bow down and worship him or something.

“Let me eat you out,” Ilya says, his voice breathless.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Ilya presses his lips to Shane’s, his tongue already pressing into Shane’s mouth. It’s gasping and clumsy and Shane can’t do anything but close his eyes and feel the motion of Ilya’s lips upon his.

When Ilya moves down his body, it’s with kisses and laves of his tongue and little bites pressed to Shane’s skin. He pushes Shane’s knees up to his chest and starts—making out, basically, with Shane’s hole. That’s the only way that Shane can think to describe the motion of Ilya’s tongue, the way that he coats Shane in spit but presses his tongue inside gently like he’s pressing his tongue into Shane’s mouth.

Ilya moans and Shane gasps and tips his head back against the pillow and whines when Ilya’s tongue presses inside at last.

How did he ever think he could live without this?

Time blurs around them as Shane’s cock leaks onto his chest and Ilya’s spit drips down onto the mattress, and when Ilya presses one finger, then two, then three into Shane, he can only gasp and beg Ilya for more.

“Fuck,” he whimpers more times than he can count, his voice rough and shaky.

“Ilya,” Shane moans when Ilya pushes into him at last, and it’s hardly any time at all before Ilya’s cock is on his prostate and he’s whimpering with the pleasure coursing through him. He has to grasp the headboard to keep himself stable from Ilya’s unrelenting thrusts, tipping his head back in pleasure.

He can almost imagine Ilya tying his hands there, taking charge completely. Shane’s eyes close at the thought as he pulls his knees further up to his chest.

“Okay?” Ilya asks Shane periodically, and Shane can only nod and whine in response, not just from the way that his legs are trembling from pleasure, but also from the way that Ilya brushes Shane’s hair out of his eyes before he asks, and looks so deeply at Shane that he doesn’t know how anyone else could ever take his place.

When Shane comes, it’s with Ilya’s lips on his neck and his cock deep inside him. It feels as if his whole body is consumed by it, as if a shivering pleasure runs all the way down to his toes and up through his stomach.

Ilya leans down to lick Shane’s cum off his chest before he comes soon after, spilling into the condom with his breath more ragged than Shane has ever heard it.

But it’s not enough to stop Ilya from grinning at Shane again as they catch their breath.

“Thank you," Ilya murmurs. "That helped a lot."

"That's okay," Shane whispers. He tucks himself into Ilya's side.

"I’ve gotta see this plug,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss onto Shane’s cheek and pulling Shane into his arms.

Chapter 16

‘Come over after morning skate tomorrow,’ Ilya texts Shane the next day, and Shane spends the next hour with his hand round his cock, a feverish desperation overcoming him at the thought of what he and Ilya might do.

His thrumming excitement is only increased by his four-point game that evening. He eats dinner with Scott and scrolls through his old texts with Ilya before bed, and his normal half an hour of staring at the wall trying to sleep is replaced by a gentle descent into sleep.

But by the next day, there’s still no text from Ilya. Shane’s leg jumps as he drives to Ilya’s place after training, and he shuffles his feet waiting for Ilya to open the door to his apartment—maybe Ilya changed his mind? Maybe he doesn’t want to see Shane any more—

Worry begins to build under his skin, and he pulls his lower lip between his teeth, chewing it as he lifts his hand to knock again. The apartment is silent inside.

‘I’m here,’ he texts Ilya with fumbling hands. ‘Is everything okay?’ He adds after a few minutes.

Shane inhales slowly through his nose, shutting his eyes and telling himself—

The door creaks open, and Ilya’s standing there in front of him.

“Sorry,” Ilya says, his voice quiet. His eyes look empty, not quite looking at Shane. He looks smaller than normal, his shoulders caved inwards and his head tilted slightly downwards.

He looks a mile away from the Ilya who’d grinned at Shane just a few days earlier.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks.

“Yeah, yeah. Just—might have to cancel today. Feeling ill.” Ilya's mouth forms a grimace, his eyes blank.

“Let me help,” Shane blurts, scanning Ilya’s face for any symptoms. He looks fine, just…not himself. “Please?”

Ilya pauses, staring at the ground for a moment before he nods slowly as if words are too difficult. He pauses again before he turns around, and Shane follows him into the apartment. Ilya sits down on the couch, hunched over whilst Shane looks around the apartment.

It’s even messier than before, and the smell of cigarettes is still lingering in the air along with a heavy, stuffy musk. Shane goes and opens the window to get some ventilation, looking around the room for something to help with.

“Sorry,” Ilya says again as Shane folds the clothes that are lying on the couch.

“It’s okay. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, you know.” Ilya pulls his legs up against his chest, staring down at the floor and biting his lip.

Shane glances at Ilya again. He looks so…not Ilya that it makes Shane want to rush around and fix everything until Ilya’s back. But maybe that’s not right?

Ilya’s been there for him over and over, and Shane can, what? Fold Ilya’s laundry whilst Ilya looks like he’s lost the final of the Stanley Cup?

Shane sits down next to Ilya, trying to steady his breathing and work out what Ilya needs. Tea? Vodka, maybe? Though vodka might be a bit much…and why is he even thinking about this when he should be paying attention to Ilya—

“I’m just being stupid,” Ilya murmurs, his hoarse voice cutting through the silence. Shane snaps to attention. “I just…get like this, sometimes. I’ll be better by tomorrow.”

“I don’t mind,” Shane says softly.

Silence stretches between them before Ilya speaks again, Shane frozen as if he might scare Ilya away.

“It’s just—” Ilya starts. He glances down at the couch. Clears his throat. “—just the article, you know. I thought I could handle it, but…the looks at training yesterday. Everyone just—knew everything. And all they could do was slap my shoulder or something. Like they thought that would make it better.”

Shane feels as if something inside of him is splintering at the words. He should’ve known that Ilya would be more affected by the article than he let on. Why did he let Ilya be alone after his first training session after the article’s release?

He wants to reach inside of Ilya and take away the pain so audible in his words. But instead, all he can do is slide a hand towards Ilya and grasp his hand.

His gaze is pulled towards Ilya’s kitchen, towards food and water that he could get for Ilya. Just a touch feels so insignificant, but also…Ilya has held Shane so many times before, and that was exactly what Shane needed.

Sometimes a touch is what you need most, right? The food and water and blankets can come later.

“It’s so stupid,” Ilya continues. “I was dealing with the article fine. But I walked into the changing room and it was like…I don’t know. Like something really heavy fell onto my shoulders.”

Shane pulls Ilya into his arms with soft, slow movements, letting Ilya bury his head in his shoulder and running his hand over Ilya’s back. At first, Ilya’s silent. And then a soft whimper escapes him; it’s the noise of something buried deep inside him, and Shane can feel the way that Ilya’s throat constricts as he fights to hold back the sound.

But it’s a losing battle. Another noise escapes Ilya, and Shane tightens his arms around Ilya’s body. “I’m here,” Shane whispers, but Ilya turns his head to the side as if he’s trying to run away.

A sob escapes Ilya’s mouth, rising up and convulsing his body as if it’s fighting its way out of him. Shane runs a hand over Ilya’s back, just like Ilya did for him that day in the dining hall.

Soon, tears begin to drip down Ilya’s face. He buries his face in Shane’s shoulder and grasps his t-shirt, and all the while Shane continues his gentle motion over Ilya’s back.

“I thought I was getting through it,” Ilya says, his voice crumpling as he speaks into Shane’s shoulder.

Shane doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He’s not sure there are any words that could be enough to understand what Ilya’s been through. So he just lets his eyes fill with tears instead, dripping down the back of Ilya’s t-shirt as he holds Ilya in his arms.

“I thought we weren’t doing this any more,” Ilya says eventually, a sad smile on his tear-soaked face as he pulls back.

“Fuck that,” Shane says, his eyes fixed on Ilya’s. The words seem to have been spoken before they were even formed in his mind. It seems inevitable, undeniable, that their agreement couldn’t last. Shane doesn’t know how he ever thought it could.

Ilya runs his eyes over Shane’s face before he settles on Shane’s eyes. His mouth curves up into a timid smile.

“Fuck that.”

For the next few days, Shane comes over to Ilya’s apartment every day, and he does all the things that he thought about before.

He cooks the same meal that Scott had cooked for him, he cleans the countertops and tell Ilya he's only allowed to smoke on the balcony.

But he also pulls Ilya’s head into his lap as they watch a Russian programme—the old favourite of his mother, Ilya tells him; he buys Ilya flowers on the anniversary of Ilya’s mother’s death, and kisses his bear tattoo and holds him in his arms.

Ilya teaches Shane how to make Pelmeni, and they eat them together at the kitchen table, talking about hockey and the upcoming draft and about their new teams. It makes Shane’s heart ache.

It’s not a perfect few days, of course. The Admirals lose a game, for one, and Ilya takes a photo of Shane ironing his underwear and snorts each time he looks at it. Shane pouts every time it happens.

But the grin on Ilya’s face after those few days feels more important than anything in the world.

The first time they have sex that week it makes Shane want to cry. Ilya opens him up slowly, carefully, working his fingers with such care into Shane until he’s trembling with need.

Ilya’s thrusts are deep and careful, working Shane up to the brink with a hand on his cock.

“Okay?” Shane asks Ilya, his voice breathless and his eyes half-shut in pleasure.

Ilya nods, and it’s not long before both of them are coming with drawn-out moans. Ilya pulls Shane into his arms afterwards, their sitcom playing in front of them.

It’s like that every night for four more days. It’s tortuous and it’s incredible, and every night Shane ends up sleeping tucked against Ilya’s body, sending some excuse to Scott about where he is.

“Have you ever heard of edging?” Ilya asks Shane on the seventh day, when they’re lying in bed together. He’s got his arm wrapped around Shane, tucking him into his shoulder whilst they watch a random show on Ilya’s laptop.

Shane’s told himself he should be gone by now, if they’re returning to this causal sex thing. But Ilya seems to like having him there. Just a little bit longer until he rips himself away, Shane tells himself. Besides, he likes Ilya's apartment, now: his clothes have a place in Ilya's closet, his toothbrush next to Ilya's in the bathroom, his book on the nightstand. There are vacuum marks on the carpet from his cleaning; the cigarette smell is gone, replaced by the smell of their cooking from earlier, the candles Shane found in Ilya's bathroom.

“What?” Shane replies.

“Edging.”

Shane clears his throat, his cheeks reddening. “Yeah. Why?”

“Been thinking about it,” Ilya says with a wry grin.

They sit in silence before Shane speaks again.

“Why did you ask that?”

“No reason,” Ilya hums, absentmindedly brushing his hand through Shane’s hair.

Shane sits up, turning to face Ilya. He knows his hair is sticking up in every direction, but— “Were you saying we should do that?”

“If you want to, then yeah.”

“You like doing that stuff? Like, edging?”

“Yeah. You can show me what you like, and I can do it for you. If you want.”

Shane sits back on the bed, chewing on his lip. His breathing falters as he tries to figure his thoughts out. Ilya—wants to do that?

It’s weird…kinda kinky, he thinks. The thought sends a jolt of thrill through Shane. Ilya’s watching him as if he wants to pounce on him.

Shane shuffles across the bed, his breath rushed as he straddles Ilya, circling his arms around Ilya’s neck and gasping into their kiss.

“You wanna do it now?” Shane asks breathlessly when they pull away.

“Yes. If you want.”

“I don’t—have the stuff I normally do though.”

“You’re missing your cock?”

“No, like. The plug and shit. But—”

“I got you some.”

“What?”

“I got you some. Yesterday, after game. I bought you butt plugs.”

Shane can’t help but look at Ilya with a shocked half-grin on his face. “You planned this? Can I see?” He shifts where he’s sitting on Ilya’s bed, the thought of Ilya picking something out for him—and thinking about what to do with it—sending a weird, fluttering excitement through his body.

Ilya smirks, reaching into his nightstand and taking out a box containing six plugs. They’re neatly lined up in the clear plastic, ranging from tiny to…significant.

Shane’s breath falters as he examines them, brushing his hands over his thighs. He shivers; his lips part. Ilya’s still standing there, smirking at Shane, watching, waiting.

“Are they silicone?” Shane asks.

“Yep. Only the best for Mr Hollander.”

Shane huffs out a laugh at Ilya’s fancy accent. “I have high standards.”

Ilya puts the plugs down on the bed and crawling on top of Shane. Shane’s breath catches at the way Ilya cages him in. “May I insert a plug, Mr Hollander?” he asks, his lips ghosting over Shane’s and his voice inflected with a teasing smile.

“Please,” Shane breathes. “Wait—” he says, reaching out a hand to Ilya’s arm. “You’re sure you want to?”

“So much. I promise.”

Shane nods, lying back against the pillows as Ilya moves over to straddle Shane. “Choose,” he says, opening the plastic casing around the plugs as if displaying a selection of wine and presenting them for Shane to take his pick.

“This one,” Shane says, pointing at the largest.

Ilya laughs, pressing a kiss to Shane's lips. "Shane Hollander, so ambitious. I knew from the day you gave me that roommate contract that you would be like this in bed."

"Like what?"

"A perfectionist, always striving for something. I like it."

"You do?"

"Of course." Ilya brushes his hand over Shane's cheeks, over his lips. Shane smiles; he takes two fingers into his mouth, sucks, sucks harder, Ilya inhaling above him, his mouth half-open.

Ilya reaches out to grab the lube from his nightstand, placing it next to him on the bed. “Tell me if there’s anything you don’t like, okay? Please,” he whispers, brushing Shane's hair out of his eyes so that he has a clear view of his face. Shane lets Ilya's fingers drop from his mouth; he nods, eyes wide as Ilya reaches down. His touch grazes over his thighs and he pushes his knees up to his chest.

Shane tips his head back, trying to regulate his breathing. He’d be lying if he said there wasn’t a pang of nervousness in his chest, but it’s the kind of nervousness that makes his body thrum with anticipation, the kind of nervousness that he gets before he steps onto the ice. It’s the kind of nervousness that makes his dick harder, really.

And anyway, he knows that Ilya will take care of him. Ilya will make sure he’s okay.

Shane closes his eyes at the funny feeling the thought gives him in his chest. It’s probably not a feeling he should have for a casual hookup.

“Come on,” he whines, pushing the thought out of his mind.

“You want my fingers?” Ilya says, a teasing note to his voice.

“Hmm—” Shane replies, his words cut off as Ilya’s hand brushes over his cock, his other hand reaching for the lube.

Ilya’s touch is light and teasing on Shane’s hole, circling the rim; Shane feels as if he's going to start shuddering with the weight of the anticipation that's building inside of him. He feels as if every atom of his body is poised, waiting for Ilya's touch, waiting for Ilya to bring him to the edge, to stop, to control, to make him come. Fuck.

He remembers himself in the shower at BU, his hand gripping his cock, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to imagine fucking Rose. He wishes, now, that he could go back into that dripping shower and tell himself: you can stop pretending. It's better when you stop pretending, you know.

Shane looks across the room: there are no pucks, no hockey gear, no training schedule. Shane can keep hockey and... this perfectly, cleanly separated. It's easy. So easy, right?

"Ready for a third?" Ilya asks, and Shane nods. Here, now, only sensation matters. Easy.

And then Ilya is crooking his fingers inside of Shane, and Shane is whimpering, squirming, trying to push himself down to get Ilya’s fingers deeper inside. It’s infuriating, the way that Ilya fucks his fingers in, crooking them, stretching Shane out, pulling out again.

“If you don’t—” Shane starts, before Ilya pushes his fingers in once more. Maybe he should make a contract for this, too: Ilya Rozanov must give Shane Hollander what he wants. They can sign it like an MLH contract.

Ilya smirks; he relents soon after, sitting back on the bed and reaching for the lube again. “Still okay?” He asks in that soft tone that makes Shane want to pant with need.

“Yes,” Shane nods, his voice uneven. He tries to level his most intimidating stare at Ilya to make him move faster, but Ilya just grins at Shane instead.

When Ilya pushes the plug into him at last, Shane can only pant and grasp Ilya’s arm as he feels the stretch of his rim around it. Soon, it’s snug against his hole and Ilya’s pressing a kiss to his stomach, running his hands up Shane’s thighs.

“It’s okay?” Ilya asks.

Shane shifts a little to test out the feeling. He’s used one before, of course, but this…it feels deeper, wider, than before, in a way that makes him want to whimper and beg and makes his cock jump when it moves inside of him.

“Good?” Ilya asks, and Shane sits up on his elbows to glare at Ilya, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“You took so long,” he says, a slight whine in his voice. He feels helpless, vulnerable, somehow, as if he can’t possibly do what he needs himself. As if all he can do is plead Ilya to do everything for him. “It’s good—good, just—come on, please.”

"Yes, yes," Ilya blurts, leaping off the bed and dragging a chair to place it by the end of the bed. He sits down in it, his legs spread wide and his cock tenting his boxers. Shane wants to crawl forwards on his knees and suck on it through the grey fabric—but also, Ilya hasn’t told him he can. He can’t quite figure out why that matters, but something inside of him is stopping him anyway.

“Show me what you like to do,” Ilya murmurs, his voice low and focussed and his gaze trained on Shane.

“And then you’ll fuck me?”

“Yes.”

Shane shivers, just a little, his breath picking up as the words sink in. As if by its own accord, his hand slides downwards over his chest. The touch feels sharp, magnified on the muscle of his chest, as if every bodily sensation has been turned up. Shane’s used to stepping out of his body as trainers or doctors or coaches to use and inspect. But this awareness—it’s a complete opposite. It’s as if he’s stepped completely into his body and each touch has become his own again.

Shane’s hand reaches down to where the plug is pressed up against him. He runs a finger along the silicone base, around his rim that’s holding it inside. He opens his legs wider for Ilya to see.

“Fuck,” Ilya says, and Shane glances up.

Ilya’s watching him. His lips are parted and he’s leaning forwards, his hands gripping onto the arms of the chair. Something clicks into place in Shane’s mind. He’s putting on a show for Ilya. Showing Ilya what he likes. Fuck.

His hand moves up again to his cock, brushing his hand over it once, twice, taking the tip in his hand and grazing his thumb over the slit. His breath falters at the action, a burst of pleasure running through him. He looks up at Ilya again: his eyes are widened, his posture forwards, his lips slightly parted. He looks alive, Shane thinks; that mask that Ilya puts on has been discarded. Everyone else, the media, the other players, the public: they wouldn't recognise this version of Ilya. Here, he's alive; here, he lets his desires become written on his face.

Here, he lets Shane see what he wants, who he is.

Shane gasps; his eyes close as he grabs himself fully, jerking himself off with a roughness that always makes his back arch and his head tip back in pleasure. He wants Ilya to see just how he likes it: he, in return, will show Ilya who he is.

His hand is harsh and unforgiving in the best way, and he moves a little to get a better position, and—a whine is punched out of him as the plug brushes over his prostate, his head tipped back against the pillow. "Fuck, Shane," Ilya murmurs. Shane gasps again.

A few minutes is all it takes for an orgasm to be rising up inside of him, Ilya’s gaze upon him and the plug deep within him. The orgasm rises and rises and suddenly he’s there and he’s teetering on the precipice; Shane grasps the base of his cock, squeezing his eyes shut to hold the orgasm back.

The action punches a moan out of him as he loses himself in the throes of a searing arousal. It’s torturous, the action, fucked up and weird. But it makes Shane’s whole body shiver in the pleasure of denial, and he looks up and—

Ilya’s mouth is half open and his cock’s in his hand. His boxers are barely pushed down, as if he couldn’t stop for long enough to take them properly off.

“Fuck,” he says. “How many times can you—?”

“Three times more, maybe?” Shane says, his voice shaky. His cock is red and curved, leaking pre-cum onto his stomach between them. It looks obscene. Ilya can see just how much Shane wants this. Shane doesn't care: he wants Ilya to see, to like it.

Shane’s breath is coming in pants with the effort of holding himself back, little whimpers escaping his mouth every so often as he looks across the room at Ilya.

Ilya has moved forwards to the edge of his seat, his hands gripping the arms of the chair as if he’s physically holding himself back from moving to Shane. And his gaze—it’s locked on Shane, his eyes wide and hungry.

“Please—” Ilya starts. “Let me touch, please.”

“Yes, yes, I want you, please, just—please—” Shane’s voice is whiny and breathless, a teary desperation rising up within him. He feels as if he’s hurtling along a rollercoaster, his body moving faster than his mind can catch up with.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Ilya murmurs, crawling onto the bed and taking Shane’s cock in his hand.

Shane whimpers, collapsing back against the pillows.

Only a few minutes pass before Shane’s orgasm approaches again, when the rough movement of Ilya’s hand becomes enough for his back to arch against the pillow and for his mouth to open in pleasure.

“I’ll tell you—tell you when,” Shane pants, and Ilya gives a determined nod in response.

Even in the haze of his pleasure, Shane can see how much Ilya cares about this. He’s so focussed on taking care of Shane, on doing what Shane wants. It’s—fuck, it’s so fucking hot and it shouldn’t be, shouldn’t be at all.

Ilya bought these plugs for Shane, because he wanted to see Shane do this.

He wants to show Ilya how much he likes it. How much he loves the touch of Ilya’s hand and how much he wants Ilya to see how good he can be.

“Kiss me,” Shane says, and Ilya leans down into a gasping kiss.

The movement of Ilya’s slows to something teasing, just as Shane had shown Ilya how he liked it. Shivers surge up within Shane—and Ilya reaches his other hand down and taps the base of the plug—

“Gonna—” Shane gasps, throwing his head back against the pillow.

Ilya’s hand releases Shane and he sits back on his ankles. Shane writhes beneath him, his hips jolting forwards out of his control. The arousal and the denial and the crescendo of sensation pour over him; he can hear his own moans, but they don’t matter right now. Not when the intensity of sensation is narrowing down into a single, burning pleasure as he fights to hold the orgasm back.

Shane feels—proud, almost, when he holds it back. Like he’s showing Ilya something he’s worked for, something that he likes to do and that he’s good at.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says, reaching out a hand to cup the back of Shane’s head in his hand. “You’re so fucking good.”

Shane can’t help but smile up at Ilya, leaning into his touch.

“One more?” Ilya asks.

But Shane can see Ilya’s cock straining in his boxers. It must be aching—and Shane should, he should—

Shane tries to get up onto his knees, his legs unsteady beneath him as he reaches out a hand for Ilya’s cock. He should help—

“Hey,” Ilya murmurs, his voice low and rough. “You first. I want to take care of you first. I wait, okay?”

“You—you’re sure?”

“Yes,” Ilya nods, and he grasps Shane’s shoulders and lowers him carefully back down onto the bed.

“You good?”

Shane nods, his eyes wide.

This is—fuck, this is disastrous. Ilya’s perfect, too fucking perfect. This is disastrous. How is Shane supposed to ever let someone else have Ilya? How can he keep pretending that—

“One more?” Ilya asks, his eyes fixed on Shane’s.

“Yes,” Shane says, and Ilya’s hand reaches upwards.

He runs his hand over the muscle of Shane’s chest, a slow caress that shouldn’t make Shane’s back arch in the way that it does. He runs his thumb along the line of Shane’s chest, rising and falling with each sharp inhale he takes.

Ilya’s hand moves across Shane’s pec as if he’s admiring the muscle, and Shane’s body narrows down to the feeling alone, to the gentle touch of Ilya on his skin. It feels like so much more than it should.

The hand reaches Shane’s nipple, brushing a thumb over it before tweaking it—and fuck, it’s almost too much, enough that Shane is whimpering and arching his back and twisting his head against the pillow.
He feels as if his control is unravelling, as if Ilya is in charge of his pleasure now. And maybe that’s the thought that makes Shane arch his back, saying, “Gonna come, Ilya—”

His voice is hardly his own anymore; it’s hoarse and desperate and Ilya can see just how good Ilya’s touch makes him feel.

“You're perfect,” Ilya whispers, pressing a kiss to Shane’s lips. "How did I even—" he starts, and then brushes Shane’s hair out of his eyes to look at his face. Shane knows his desperation is written clearly across his sweat-soaked face. It’s a desperation that he can’t hide—and yet Ilya’s looking at him with something so tender etched into his features. Shane feels like Ilya’s expression might make him cry if he looks for too long.

“Good, so good, Shane,” Ilya murmurs. His voice is breathless and his eyes don’t stray.

“Fuck me, please,” Shane says.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I want to ride you sometime,” Ilya says when he pulls the plug out of Shane.

“What?” Ilya’s words make Shane forget the stretch of the plug as it leaves him, his eyes wide as he looks up at Ilya.

“I want to ride you. On top. Not now, but. Sometime.”

“Like—you being the bottom?”

“Yes. Just to try, like you said.” Ilya leans down to press a kiss to Shane’s reddened, bitten lips, putting the plug to the side and sitting back on his heels. “I think I wanna see you beneath me. Try something new.”

“Really?” Shane has the sudden urge to sit up, to pull Ilya close and squeeze his arms around him so tight neither of them can breathe.

“Not sure if I’ll like it. But I want to try, later.”

Shane nods, leaning back down against the pillows. "I would like that. I like trying new things, with you." These two weeks feel like some kind of dream, like a haze of sadness and sex that have all mingled into one.

"Me too."

“Come on,” Shane says, grasping Ilya’s arm to pull him forwards again. “Need it.”

Ilya pushes into Shane with an agonising slowness, stretching him wide and pushing in so deep Shane can just tip his head back and gasp. His cock is purplish against his stomach and his moans hoarse.

Ilya leans down to find Shane’s mouth; his hand slides up the bed and grasps Shane’s own.

Shane holds onto that hand like it’s a lifeboat as pleasure begins to radiate outwards, starting somewhere deep inside of him and building and building. It’s so fast and it’s so much that it’s a little bit terrifying.

“I’ve got you,” Ilya says, and he reaches down to kiss Shane as that pleasure builds and builds and it’s so much and so good and Shane can hardly manage to say, “Please, please, can I—”

“Yes, yes, Shane, so good, so fucking good.”

For a split second, Shane teeters on a precipice as he feels the inevitable weight of his orgasm. His legs tremble; his chest shudders.

And just like that, Shane comes across his chest.

When he comes back to himself, Shane realises that his face is tracked with tears and that Ilya’s next to him, his hand working his cock and his mouth open in pleasure. He can see the way that Ilya begins to lose himself to the pleasure as his hand stutters on his cock, his eyes closing and a sheen of sweat on his face.

Shane wishes he could paint, or stop time, or do something to take in the image of Ilya above him. His muscles tense with every movement of his hand, his eyes closed to pleasure, little pants escaping his mouth. Here, restraint doesn't matter.

Ilya comes with a groan, collapsing down onto his elbows and trying to regain his breath. Shane can’t help but smile at the sight, some odd, proud feeling of satisfaction settling inside him.

Ilya liked it too.

“Okay?” Ilya asks, and Shane nods, words too far away. Contentment is sitting heavy in his limbs, lulling his mind. Ilya feels like the only thing that matters.

Ilya studies his face, calm and careful, before he reaches to the nightstand to take out Shane’s water bottle and a protein bar. Shane's favourite type.

Shane closes his eyes again, leaning into the warmth that’s settled over his mind, letting the feeling wash over him as he folds himself into Ilya’s arms.

“I was good?” he asks, raising his chin to look at Ilya.

Ilya’s voice is just above a whisper when he replies, as if he’s afraid of what the words mean.

“So good. You’re so good, Shane.”

Chapter 17

Chapter Notes

Shane wakes up the next morning with Ilya’s arm over his waist and his breath ghosting over the back of Shane’s neck.

His eyes open slowly, tentatively, as if their movement alone might rouse Ilya behind him. He takes in the way that the curtain is fluttering in the morning breeze, the quiet comfort that’s settled deep into his limbs.

It must be early. Early enough that he can sink into the sensation of Ilya’s arms around him for a little longer. Shane’s not foolish enough to think that he can deprive himself of this anymore, of this thing that he has with Ilya. All Shane knows is that he’ll take whatever Ilya gives, for as long as Ilya allows.

Over the next few minutes, Ilya’s movements start gradually—a shift of his arm where it’s resting over Shane’s waist, shallower breaths against Shane’s neck, his limbs moving slowly.

Ilya presses a kiss to the back of Shane’s neck before they get up, shuffling to the kitchen to make breakfast. They sit down on the couch together to eat, and Ilya’s arm wraps around Shane’s shoulders, pulls him close; he throws his leg over Shane’s as if he’s trying to be as close as physically possible.

He always wants to be close to me, Shane thinks. He feels as if all the air is pulled out of his chest at the thought.

It’s joined, however, by something creeping, that inches its way into Shane’s mind. A cold, terrifying realisation that this thing that he has for Ilya, this feeling, that it wasn’t supposed to happen. That—

He’s fucking in love with Ilya.

The thought feels crystal clear, like it's been lurking under the surface all this time, something so glaringly obvious he doesn't know how he missed it.

Ilya's chatter sounds muffled in his ears.

Shane exhales slowly, his eyes wide where they’re staring into space. He glances up at Ilya, his gaze almost fearful, as if Ilya might be able to see the thought in Shane’s mind.

Ilya is watching him, with curiosity and calmness and a crumb of toast on his lip. “What’re you thinking about?” He asks, shifting his leg where it’s resting over Shane’s.

“Nothing important.” Shane can’t seem to look away from Ilya.

“You gonna get your fiftieth goal tonight?”

Shane shifts his face into a smile, trying to remember how he’d normally react. “I would need a hat-trick if I did.”

“You can get it.” Ilya takes his bowl out of his hands and pushes Shane down on the couch to kiss him.

Shane leaves Ilya’s thirty minutes later, promising to return that evening after the game.

He walks down the fire escape of Ilya’s building, his hood pulled up and glancing round as usual for anyone who could recognise him. It’s early, a few hours to go until morning practice. But still.

Shane’s phone pings with a text.

‘Get dick-trick if you want to get dicked down tonight,’

Shane nearly falls down the stairs as he reads Ilya’s text, his cheeks flaming red. He has to grab the bannister to steady himself before he replies.

‘No sexting before the game,’ he replies.

By the time he gets back to Scott’s, Shane has realised that he hasn’t followed his game-day routine at all today. He’s skipped his morning yoga, his meditation and his multivitamins. It feels like a curse, almost. But Shane has never been a superstitious player, he thinks, opening the door to Scott’s apartment. He’s always been more focussed on real, scientific methods—

Scott’s there on the couch. But more importantly, there’s a man beneath him, sitting up in shock and wiping the kiss from his mouth.

The door slams shut behind Shane. His bag falls off his shoulder and onto the floor. He takes a step back, but he’s trapped, and Scott’s looking up at him and his eyes are widening and it’s too late.

“Sorry, sorry,” Scott blurts, standing up from the couch and striding towards Shane with his hands held out as if he’s trying to appease a wild beast.

“I’ll just—” comes a voice from the couch. The guy is short, muscular, with reddened cheeks and tousled hair. He motions vaguely towards Scott’s bedroom and scurries off towards it.

“I thought you were away for the night?” Scott says. His voice is low, a note of panic in it that Shane’s never heard before.

“I was, I’m just—back before morning skate.”

“Right, yeah. Sorry.” Scott rubs a hand over his forehead. “Can I just—could you not tell anyone about this? Please?”

Shane doesn’t say anything, just stares at Scott with wide eyes. He opens his mouth to try and say something, to tell Scott he doesn’t mind, to do something, at least—but no words come out.

“What can I do for you to keep this quiet?” Scott asks. “Please?”

Scott’s eyes are wide, and there’s a slight tremble to his hands as he holds them out in front of him. Shane’s never seen him like that, not before any game, not even when Coach was shouting or when the Admirals were on a six game losing streak.

Shane needs to tell Scott it’s fine, really needs to. He knows how much this means to Scott, how terrifying it must be—but the words—

“No, I—” Shane starts. “I wouldn’t—” He stops again. Takes a breath. “I’m gay,” he blurts out.

“What?”

“I’m gay, so. I won’t tell anyone. Just—you know. Just thought that would be the best way to…” Shane trails off, his gaze falling to the floor.

He hears a huff of laughter from Scott.

“Shit, well.” Scott says, a note of laughter still in his voice. “That’s one way to reassure me.”

Shane glances up. His cheeks redden as he takes in the grin on Scott’s face.

Fuck, he knew he didn’t need to do all that. Why didn’t he just control himself, react in the right way?

“You won’t tell anyone, right?” Shane asks.

“Course not. I’m—” Scott takes a step forwards, concern etched into his face. “I’m glad you told me, kid. I appreciate it. Not conventional, but…it worked.”

“No,” Shane huffs into Scott’s chest as he’s pulled into his arms. “I’m oversharing.” Shane’s hands linger by his sides for a moment, before he lifts them up, hesitatingly, to wrap around Scott in return.

“Maybe a little,” Scott smiles. “But I’m still glad. You’re the first hockey friend to know about me. I couldn’t have thought of anyone better to share this with, I promise.”

“Thanks,” Shane mumbles, fighting back some strange ache within himself. “I can’t believe I said that,” he smiles shyly as he pulls back.

Scott smiles in return, glancing at his bedroom. “Do you want to meet Kip?” He asks.

“So, um—how did you guys meet?” Shane asks when they sit down on the couch together.

“At the smoothie shop I work at,” Kip smiles, turning to look at Scott. They grin at each other with such love on their faces that Shane’s chest pangs as he watches.

Scott will have to keep whatever’s between them secret for all of Scott’s career, secret from the media and teammates and the public. For all of his life, maybe.

But despite all that, Shane wants that open adoration more than anything, to be able to share this thing with Ilya with someone, so much that hockey and his parents and everything else seem to fall away in the face of that desire.

“Thank you for this morning,” Scott tells Shane as he drives them to the rink for morning skate. He glances across at Shane as if he needs him to see the gratefulness on his face.

“It’s okay,” Shane says, offering a smile. The thought of what Scott would think if he knew about Ilya flits across his mind, before he pushes the thought down, replacing it with points and stats and the stretches he’s going to do when he gets there.

Their game that evening against Winnipeg has a different force behind it. Scott seems to glide through the defensemen, snapping the puck into the back of the net within three minutes of puck-drop, slamming into the boards in celebration.

Shane scores soon after, flicking the puck over the goaltender’s shoulder; his teammates slam into him with grins across their faces and with slaps on his back. It’s fast-paced and ruthless and it’s good fucking hockey, better than the Admirals have played all season.

“Nice one, kid,” Scott tells Shane on the bench, offering him a sideways grin. “One more to fifty.”

Shane nods, exhaling slowly and looking down at the floor.

There’s a nudge from Scott, who nods at the crowd when Shane looks across at him. Shane’s gaze flicks towards the crowd, running across the sea of faces—and there’s Kip, sitting there with a smile on his face that’s visible from all the way across the ice.

Shane turns to look at Scott, a surprised smile on his face. “You brought him?”

“He’s come to every game for a few weeks now.”

“I never noticed.”

“You’re the first person I’ve told.”

Shane glances down at his stick where it’s resting against his skate. “I’m happy for you.” He really is. He just wishes he could have it, too. He really wishes for it. More than anything in the world, maybe.

On his next shift, on the counter, Shane scores a second goal.

The third goal, his fiftieth of the season, comes on the power play. The Admirals seem to pass the puck with an impossible speed, each player finding the next before Winnipeg have even looked up.

The opportunity comes in the flash of a second, an opening between the defensemen; the puck snaps onto Shane’s stick, and it’s flying into the corner of the net before he can think.

The raucous cheers of the crowd overpower the blast of the goal horn, as Shane’s teammates gather round him in a circle, smacking his shoulders and shouting in congratulations. A grin creeps its way onto Shane’s face, tugging at the corners of his mouth and filtering through his blood until he feels as if his whole body is lit up from the inside.

It’s a strange joy, too much for the milestone of fifty goals. But that warmth lingers anyway as Shane steps off the ice, as he steps back on when he gets first star of the game, and when he’s met by cheers and shouts in the changing room.

He’s in love. And he just got fifty goals.

That impossible happiness lingers when he heads to Ilya’s that night, a rushed excuse blurted to the team about why he can’t go out. He knows he’s pushing it, with not seeing girls and with declining the guys’ invites to go to bars. But this feeling is so big, so all-encompassing—for the first time in his life he can’t seem to bring himself to care.

The thrill of the game is still running through his limbs as he calls, “Have fun,” to Scott as they leave the rink. He gets a grin from Scott in return, who strides off to go and meet Kip for the night. Shane smiles to himself as he watches the spring in Scott’s step. He looks like a teenager going off to meet his first love. Shane wonders whether he looks the same.

That same happiness lingers when Shane stops off at the glowing lights of the 7-11 to pay for his gas, when he steps inside and sees the cake mix on the shelf, facing the entrance. It’s the same one he made so many times with his mom when they were younger; it’s full of additives and sugar and now his mom would never have a cake like that in her house. But it was tasty and fun and it was before all of this hockey stuff started, before he knew what macros and micronutrients were.

He snaps up the cake mix before he can think why.

“Hey,” Shane says, breathless as Ilya opens the door for him.

He’s pulled inside, the cake mix in his hand, and he’s pressed against the door, and Ilya’s lips are finding his before he knows what’s happening. Ilya’s hands run up and down his sides, over his back and into his hair.

“Fifty goals,” Ilya whispers into his ear. Shane can’t help but glance across at Ilya’s face, his smile so wide it makes little crinkles around his eyes. Shane wants to kiss them.

“Cake mix?” Ilya asks, taking the box from Shane’s hand. “To celebrate?”

“Yeah. If—if you want to.”

“Course.” Ilya’s eyes run over Shane’s face. “Course we can. Now?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, a tentative smile on his face. “If you want.”

Ilya leans forwards to plant a kiss on Shane’s lips before he pulls back, turning to face the kitchen.
“Vanilla?” He says, grinning as he turns to look at Shane, who’s measuring out the butter.

“Yeah. It’s my favourite.”

“Of course it is,” Ilya grins, turning towards Shane to drop another kiss onto his mouth. His arms wrap around Shane’s back, holding him close and deepening the kiss.

"Asshole," Shane smiles, pressing his lips back onto Ilya's.

This whole thing—it’s almost too much, too good, so much that Shane is scared that the universe is going to snatch it away. Ilya’s hands are so gentle, his words so tender, Shane doesn’t know what to do with it but be scared that it might leave.

“Here,” Ilya says, holding a forkful of cake up to Shane’s mouth.

Shane opens his mouth wide, and Ilya plants it in his mouth, smearing icing on Shane's lips in the process. He drops another kiss onto Shane’s cheek as he pulls away, watching in expectation as he waits for Shane’s verdict.

It tastes exactly like he remembers, artificial and cloyingly sweet. It tastes like when he used to sit with his mom on the couch eating cake and watching hockey, before that same hockey swallowed up that time with his mom.

“It’s good,” he says. Ilya’s watching him steadily, carefully, his eyes tracing over Shane for any remnants of the Shane who would spout something about calories and chemicals and start trembling at the words.

“Chocolate would be better,” Ilya says, sitting back with a smile when he realises Shane isn’t going to panic.

“Shut up,” Shane grins, and Ilya leans forwards once more to press a kiss to his lips.

“Like this,” Shane says later that night, his voice breathy as he straddles Ilya’s lap on the bed, naked.

Ilya nods, and Shane can feel his heartbeat, steady beneath Shane’s hand where it’s pressed to Ilya’s chest. The room is darkened around them, the lights of the city stretching out through the broad windows as New York settles into sleep. Shane feels as if they’re alone, together in this pocket of quiet, high above Manhattan.

The city seems to slide away as Shane sinks down onto Ilya’s cock; he can’t do anything but pant and gasp and press a kiss to Ilya’s lips at the slow, aching push as Ilya splits him open.

Ilya lets out a low moan when Shane is fully seated, murmurs something in Russian whilst Shane slides a hand into his hair, feels the curls under his fingertips.

Shane’s movements start out leisurely; each time he rises, he lets himself revel in the feeling of Ilya inside him, the way that he seems to get impossibly deeper when he sinks back down again. He feels the touch of Ilya’s hands on his body, the soft sighs that they make and the tensing of his muscles as he rises and falls.

Shane hardly notices his cock, hanging heavy between them, as the sensations wrap around him. With each movement, his desire grows, and he begins to move faster, to pant and gasp and hold onto Ilya, shivers of pleasure running up his spine.

Ilya reaches out a hand to Shane’s cock, bliss written across his face and his eyes on Shane’s.

“I want—” Shane starts, “I want to wait.”

Ilya nods, running his hands over Shane’s back to hold him tight as he begins to fuck up into him.

“So good, Shane, so good,” he says, and they grasp onto each other as desperation rises up inside them and they move and move and their pleasure crescendos with stuttering moans.

“You want bath?” Ilya asks afterwards, brushing Shane’s hair back from his forehead where he’s lying on Ilya’s chest.

“Sure.”

Ilya takes them to the bathroom, filling up the standing tub in the middle of the room with warm, bubbly water.

“How is it?” Ilya asks as Shane sinks into the water.

“It’s nice. Relaxing,” Shane murmurs, his mind resting in a peaceful sleepiness that makes everything softer around the edges.

Ilya hums, getting into the bath and moving to sit behind Shane. He washes Shane’s back with the warm, soapy suds with rhythmical movements, before he pulls Shane back to lie against his chest.

Shane glances to his left, to the glow of the New York skyline that stretches out into the distance, before he turns around in Ilya’s arms until he’s lying sideways against Ilya’s chest, his head resting next to Ilya’s neck.

“This might be my perfect night,” he murmurs, trailing a soapy hand through the water and watching how it parts around his fingertip.

Ilya’s quiet for a moment before he replies. “Yeah?” His voice sounds tentative, almost, as if he’s afraid he’d heard Shane wrong.

“Yeah.”

Ilya presses his lips to Shane’s forehead, his hands gentle where they’re holding Shane.

“I think you’ve kissed every part of my face by now,” Shane says, smiling as he speaks.

“Is too much?”

“It’s not too much. I like it,” Shane breathes. He lifts his hand to trace over the fine lines of the tattoo on Ilya’s chest, feeling the soft skin and the faint thrum of Ilya’s heart beneath. Shane hears Ilya inhale above him.

“Sorry.” Shane pulls away, pursing his lips.

“It’s okay. You can do it. Feels nice.”

Shane lifts his hand once more, his breath soft in his chest. The silence stretches out as he runs his finger over the mouth of the bear, over the muscles of Ilya’s pec.

Ilya is still and silent above him. Shane knows by now that he is somewhere deep within his mind, somewhere that Shane can’t see. Ilya’s hand begins to caress Shane’s arm, his touch feather light and his gaze distant, as if he’s looking off somewhere that only he can see.

When Ilya eventually speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. “I think she wouldn’t be proud of me, now,” he says. “My mother.”

Shane’s hand stops.

Ilya swallows harshly before he continues. “I love her. I love her so much. But I don’t think she would be proud, maybe.”

The words sink into Shane, heavy and painful.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because—because Russia hates gay people. And she grew up there. She—maybe she would think it isn’t right, too.”

“I’m sorry.” The words feel wrong on Shane’s lips. Inadequate.

“It’s not her fault.” Ilya’s voice weakens as he speaks, his eyes fixed on the ceiling and his arms wrapped tightly around Shane’s body. “I just forget that she wasn’t perfect, sometimes.”

Shane listens, his head resting against Ilya’s chest. He raises his hand up again to brush over the tattoo. “I don’t know—if this matters,” he starts, his voice painful in his throat. “But I’m proud of you, Ilya. I promise you, I am.”

Ilya is silent under the weight of Shane’s body. His hand moves upwards, over Shane’s shoulder until it finds his back. There, he caresses up and down over the soft skin, just as his mother had once done for him.

Later, as they lie in bed together, their arms around one another, Shane’s thoughts drift back towards Ilya’s mother. He tries to think of something he can do to make it right, something he can do to make that aching tone in Ilya’s voice get better. He doesn’t know.

He turns over so that he’s facing Ilya, his eyes tracing over the line of Ilya’s face through the darkness.

There’s a slight movement of Ilya’s arm, a rustle against the sheets.

“Shane,” he says, his breath heavy in the darkness of the room. The words are whispered, a note of fear in Ilya’s voice. “I want her to be proud of me. I really, really want it.”

Shane is still for a moment. His own mom flickers across his mind before he pushes the thought down.

“I know,” he murmurs. He presses a kiss to Ilya’s arm where it’s reaching out for Shane, and pulls Ilya into him, cradling him close as Ilya’s breaths mellow out into slow, deep sleep.

The next morning, Shane wakes up at eight, much later than normal. Ilya is out of bed already, and Shane can hear his footsteps in the kitchen.

“Is oatmeal okay?” Ilya asks when Shane walks in, wearing one of Ilya’s t-shirts.

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll chop up some fruit.”

Shane takes kiwis and mangoes out of the fridge, laying them on the counter and beginning to chop them up, the sweet juice staining his fingers. He leans over to feed Ilya a piece occasionally as he works.

When Shane reaches the final piece of mango, he hears a strange clinking sound behind him. He stops, listens to the noise. It’s replaced by—by the sound of keys in a lock, in the lock of the front door, the lock that is behind Shane on the other side of the kitchen—

Ilya and Shane turn around at the same time.

It’s too late to hide.

Shane feels as if his heart falls out of his body. The door opens.

Svetlana takes a step into the apartment, keys in hand. She stops in the doorway, stands there for a moment, takes in the sight in front of her. Her eyes meet Shane’s.

And then she bursts into laughter.

Chapter End Notes

I'm a little nervous to post this chapter because of the stuff about Ilya's mom--I promise I'm not trying to make her as bad as Ilya's father, I just think it would be interesting to think about how Ilya likely wouldn't know what she would think about LGBTQ stuff. Ilya will never know for sure, and I imagine the question of her acceptance would stay with him a lot. Anyway, that's all to say that thought went into the scene and I'm not just trying to make the image of Ilya's mother imperfect for no reason.

Exams are coming up so the final few chapters might be a little slow, sorry!

Chapter 18

“Shane Hollander?” Svetlana says, sounding out each syllable with her heavy Russian accent, looking him up and down with a wide-eyed smirk.

She has that same cadence to her words that Shane recognises from Ilya. It stirs up a faint annoyance within him as he watches her, his shoulders held tight in anticipation.

Ilya, meanwhile, is standing stock-still next to Shane, his mouth open in surprise.

Shane watches him for something, anything, that might show if he’s ashamed of Shane, if this is it and Ilya won’t stand having someone seeing them like this. Instead, Ilya’s face is blank, shock the only emotion that Shane can discern.

Svetlana’s eyes move over to Ilya. “Ilya Rozanov,” she says, as if she’s reprimanding him. “This is what you were hiding?”

The words seem to snap Ilya out of his daze. “Da, Sveta. Um—” it’s the first time Shane has seen Ilya properly lost for words, as he motions towards Shane. “You know Shane Hollander.”

She barks out a laugh. “I know Shane Hollander. You’re couple?”

How can she just say things like that, asking if they’re a couple like they’re not hockey players, in a league without a single openly gay player? It makes that seed of annoyance within Shane grow and fester, in the way that she acts like this thing is easy. Like the league wouldn't kick them both to the curb in an instant if they knew about it.

There’s a beat of silence before Ilya replies.

Shane’s breath catches in his throat, anticipation running under his skin even though he knows they’re not—

“Not a couple,” Ilya says.

Svetlana looks between them with narrowed eyes, Shane’s hand trembling at his side. She beckons to Ilya, with a long, manicured nail, and he glances at Shane apologetically before he follows her robotically to his room.

She pulls the door shut behind her with a click.

Shane has to wait for a moment before his limbs seem to unstick themselves. He swallows harshly, glancing around the empty kitchen—their breakfast stuff is still out on the counter. He begins to mechanically continue with the preparation.

The oatmeal is releasing a waft of something burnt, and he scrapes what’s left into a bowl with a shaky hand, as he tries to push down and down and down the thought that sits unwavering and obtrusive in his mind.

This is the end of this thing with Ilya. Probably. Almost certainly.

For the first time in months, as Shane looks down at the bowl of thick oatmeal in front of him, that once familiar nausea is rising up inside of him.

The feeling that eating is impossible.

“Hey,” Ilya says when he comes out of his bedroom. “You okay?” He asks Shane, glancing over as he leads Svetlana to the door. Shane nods, and Ilya envelops Svetlana into a hug, her arms circling his back and squeezing tightly.

Shane looks down at his bowl. Right. Maybe he should go, too—

“You fucker,” Svetlana murmurs to Ilya as she pulls away, smiling up at him.

She turns her gaze behind Ilya to look at Shane.

“Bye, Shane Hollander,” she calls. “You need to work on your backhand.”

“What—” Shane starts, but the door is already shutting behind her.

He sits back in his seat with a huff, before Ilya’s figure moves into his gaze. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “She was—surprised. She won’t say anything, though. I promise.”

Shane nods, standing up from his chair and picking up his bowl. “Right—I should—”

“What?” Ilya reaches out to grab the bowl. “No. You need breakfast.” He glances down at the mess sitting at the bottom of the bowl, his face contorting into some odd expression of disgust. “This is—ugh. Let me make something else.”

So Ilya makes pancakes for them both, using a healthy-ish recipe that he finds in one of his new cookbooks and trying to make little shapes with the batter, whilst he makes Shane cut up the rest of the fruit and feed him little pieces as he works.

When they finally sit back down at the table, Ilya places a star-shaped pancake in front of Shane and some weird blob in front of himself.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Shane asks.

“Stanley Cup,” Ilya says through a mouthful.

Shane can’t help but let out a huff of laughter, before he looks back down at his plate. He pauses for a second, exhaling slowly at the thought of the dairy in the pancakes.

Then he reaches for the cutlery. He’s not—he’s not doing that thing anymore. That thing where he can’t eat. He's not doing that anymore, not when Ilya has made such an effort and made a little star pancake just for Shane.

His eyes can’t help but wander up to Ilya, looking for—he doesn’t know. Reassurance, maybe? It’s just—there’s some weird pride in Shane’s chest, that he hasn’t let that feeling that he can’t eat overcome his body again.

Ilya’s eyes meet Shane’s, offering him a smile before he shovels another mouthful into his mouth.

“Sorry about earlier,” Ilya says.

“Yeah—it’s, um. Fine.”

“Yes, she’s…confused why I have to—” Ilya pauses, “—fuck someone from our rival team. But she’s happy for me.”

“Oh,” Shane says, looking down at his food. He swallows harshly. “So—is she still, uh—with her girlfriend?”

“Yes, yes—she’s—going strong. They’re—exclusive.”

“Exclusive?”

“Yes—not fucking anyone else. You know?” Ilya’s voice is stilted, his accent growing more pronounced.

“Oh—yeah, I do.” Shane swallows carefully, a strange buzz of energy thrumming through him.

“Are you, um—exclusive?” Ilya asks, sounding the words carefully, glancing up at Shane as if looking for reassurance.

“Exclusive?”

“You—um, you’re fucking anyone else?”

“Oh. No. It’s just—just you.” Shane lifts a piece of fruit to his mouth and it hits his lip. His cheeks redden as he wipes away the juice, his hand trembling slightly. Is that—what Ilya wanted to hear? Or—

“Me too.” The words seem to fall out of Ilya’s mouth, blurted before he has time to take them back.

Shane’s eyes snap up to Ilya.

Exclusive, as in—he’s not fucking anyone else? Exclusive, as in—it’s just Shane, for him?

Ilya has returned to his pancake, cutting himself a huge mouthful and shoving it into his mouth. His cheeks puff outwards from the size of the mouthful as he looks away, looks down from Shane and back up again.

He looks almost embarrassed, Shane thinks. It kinda makes Shane want to kiss him.

“Oh,” Shane says, his voice croaky.

“Just—mentioning, you know.” Ilya’s eyes are strangely wide, not leaving Shane’s for a second before he glances back down at his plate, his cheeks reddening.

“Oh, right,” Shane says, his voice breathless.

Silence hangs between them.

Ilya is exclusive, with Shane. The thought makes his breathing more unsteady, makes his chest tight with need and makes him want to do—to do—

“Fuck me,” Shane blurts out.

Ilya’s head snaps towards Shane.

“Actually—” Shane starts, but Ilya’s chair is scraping against the floor as he pushes it outwards, as he strides round the table and Shane stands up too, as their lips connect and suddenly Shane is being pushed down onto the kitchen table and is being kissed like Ilya thinks the world is about to end.

“Mhh—fuck,” Shane gasps out as Ilya kisses down his neck, reaching his clavicle and pulling up his t-shirt to kiss up his chest. He pulls Shane’s nipple into his mouth, his teeth brushing over it as Shane lets out a whine.

“Ilya,” he says, his hand finding Ilya’s hair.

“I’ve got you,” Ilya murmurs, moving further down Shane’s body, pressing kisses into his skin and into the stretch marks in his side. His thumb slides over the marks, his eyes tracing over them as if they’re brush strokes on his skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” Ilya whispers as his hands trace the curve of Shane’s waist, his touch so caressing it makes Shane gasp; they slide underneath his t-shirt and run over his body, over the muscles Shane’s built and the places that he doesn’t let anyone else touch.

“Shane,” Ilya whispers into the skin on Shane’s stomach.

A shiver, trembling and warm, runs up Shane’s spine.

He wants to tell Ilya he loves him.

The words are already there on the tip of his tongue, sweet and tender, their taste so inviting he wants more than anything to say it. He wants it so much everything else seems to fade away, leaving him and Ilya alone, together. He wants to see love written across Ilya’s face in return.

“Shane,” Ilya says again, his voice hoarse. “Shane.” He presses another kiss to his stomach.

Shane shuts his eyes, purses his lips to keep the words at bay.

“Ilya,” he says instead.

And he pulls Ilya down to kiss him; to put everything into that kiss that he can’t say out loud.

Somehow, they make it to the couch, Ilya pressing one, two, fingers into Shane, opening him up until Shane is begging for it.

Ilya fucks Shane there on the couch, their eyes on each other and their breaths gasping into each other’s mouths. It’s an unrelenting build, his orgasm, a vulnerability to it that makes Shane feel more split open than ever before.

He feels as if there’s a split through his heart, as if all the love that he feels for Ilya is slipping out, is showing on his face and in the way that he says Ilya’s name.

So Shane shuts his eyes, and Ilya fucks into him, and he comes with the words unsaid on his lips.

The Admirals play again that evening. They lose in overtime, Scott missing a wide open net and giving a chance to the Metros to slot the winning goal into the net. The rippling sigh of the crowd is reminder enough that they’re going to finish near the bottom of the table for yet another season.

“I’m sorry,” Scott says to Shane afterwards in the changing room. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I should score that every time.”

“It’s okay,” Shane says, extending a hand to Scott’s shoulder. The loss seems to deflect off Shane in a way that they never normally do.

“A disappointing outcome there,” the reporter says to Shane afterwards. “But you’ve clearly become an excellent leader on the ice. Tell us a bit about that.”

Shane waffles something in response, his eyes flicking over the camera and the microphones as he wonders how Ilya’s game that evening went.

“How did you react when Hunter missed that open net? What did you tell him?”

“Oh—” Shane replies. “I just—just said it’s not his fault, you know. He’s too hard on himself, sometimes.”

The voice of another reporter pipes up. “Have you heard about the new pride tape scheme?”

Shane pauses. Swallows.

“The new pride tape scheme?” the reporter says again.

“Oh—no,” Shane blurts out.

“Well, we were just wondering your thoughts on its use to symbolise inclusivity within the MLH.”

“It, uh—sounds good,” Shane says, stumbling over the words. He can feel sweat, sticky on his forehead.

“Would you participate in this initiative?”

“I—” Shane stops. “I—um.” He glances at the camera. It's pointed at his face, a little red dot that tells him he's being watched. He looks down at the microphone. It's held towards him, listening to every sound he makes.

He knows what he should say.

But he just—just can’t say—

“Thank you,” Shane blurts, and turns away. Strides back to the changing room. He doesn't think about all the things that might have given him away, about what he should have said and what he couldn't say.

When he gets home, Shane looks up the pride tape initiative. It looks good. Like something that might make a difference for fans. In another world, Shane thinks, he could participate. Could advocate for things like that, for inclusivity and acceptance.

But not this world. He’s just Shane Hollander, who does what’s necessary to be good and doesn’t stray from it.

In this world, Shane is just Shane Hollander: golden boy.

He looks at the pictures of bright rainbow tape wrapped round the sticks. He imagines himself wrapping it round his own stick, the eyes of his teammates on him, the way that they might look at each other and snort out a laugh.

Shane holds down the button to shuts his phone down, watching the screen fade to black. He puts it at the other end of the room for optimal sleep quality and tucks himself into bed, trying to escape the cold air that's suffocating the room.

It takes him a long time to go to sleep that night, the image of the pride tape still burned into his mind.

Their next game goes equally badly, a 3-1 loss.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Scott says in the changing room afterwards, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Shane says, his eyes concerned as they look at Scott.

“Is something wrong?” Shane asks later, when it’s just him and Scott in the elevator at the hotel.

“Things are a bit rough with Kip, right now,” Scott says, his voice low.

“What? I thought you were going great?”

“It’s—um. It’s the secrecy of it all, I think. It’s taking a toll.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane says. Scott’s words linger with him for the rest of the evening, even as he calls Ilya.

“Tell me about Svetlana,” Shane says, after Ilya has made him come, to distract himself from wondering how Scott is doing.

And so Ilya talks about when he lived with her, about how she told him what bisexuality was and she taught him English and was his only real friend for many, many years.

And maybe Shane starts to think: she doesn’t sound that bad.

“You should meet her, properly,” Ilya says.

That night, Shane imagines a future where he and Ilya can go to a restaurant with Svetlana and Rose, and Shane can meet Svetlana and Ilya can meet Rose. He imagines how much they might laugh, and how Rose might like Svetlana and how Ilya could hold his hand and no one would care.

He falls asleep much faster, that night, wrapped up in a fantasy that he knows can't come true.

With the end of the road trip, the Admirals come into their final few games of the season.

Shane goes to Ilya’s apartment the second he gets back.

“Hey,” Ilya says, opening the door and pulling Shane inside. He presses a kiss to Shane’s cheek.

“I missed you,” Shane breathes, pushing Ilya against the wall and getting onto his knees.

He’s missed the sex, too, he thinks, almost as much as he missed Ilya, as he pulls down Ilya’s pants and takes his cock into his mouth. He sucks it down, his eyes shutting and his tongue working on the underside.

God, he’s missed this, and it’s not enough, and soon Shane finds Ilya moaning above him and pulling Shane off and leading him into the bedroom.

Ilya pulls off Shane’s clothes, pushes him onto the bed, and—

“Butt plug?” Ilya says, his eyes wide.

Shane can’t help but let out a huff of laughter at Ilya’s expression.

“When did you put it in?” Ilya asks. “Fuck.” His eyes stay glued to where the plug is sitting snug against Shane’s hole, where he’d opened himself up just for Ilya.

“Like an hour ago. I wanted you to be able to fuck me straight away, so if you could—”

Shane’s interrupted by Ilya’s hand, soft and curious at the base of the plug.

“I can touch?”

“Yes,” Shane breathes, as Ilya feels around where Shane is stretched wide, where he’d pushed the plug into himself with a whine as he thought of what Ilya was going to do to him—

Ilya’s thumb pushes at the base of the plug, moving it inside Shane and Shane can’t—

“Ilya,” he moans. “Please.”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya says, and begins to pull the plug slowly out of Shane.

“Fuck,” Shane says, as it brushes against his insides, as it pulls his rim wide and shows him that he’s ready for Ilya.

When the plug is fully out, Shane feels stretched wide, wide and empty, without Ilya inside him.

“I need—” he gasps.

“I know,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss to Shane’s thigh as he reaches for a condom.

“No condom,” Shane says, grabbing Ilya’s arm and looking into his eyes. “Please. Cause it’s—exclusive?”

“Fuck—” Ilya says, his eyes tracing over Shane’s face. “Okay, Shane. Fuck. You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Shane says. “I trust you.”

Ilya’s eyes connect to Shane’s. “I trust you too,” he says, and the words feel dangerously close to—something.

Ilya pushes into Shane slowly, gently, categorising every reaction on his face. Ilya feels closer, deeper than Shane remembers; so impossibly deep it feels as if Ilya is part of him.

His motions are deep and leisurely, too, fucking in and out of Shane with a pace that makes him shiver.

“Ilya,” Shane says when he grazes Shane’s prostate, a wave of almost intolerable pleasure trembling through him. “More.”

That’s all it takes for Ilya to flip Shane over, to push back into him and fuck him so hard that he has to grab the headboard to hold himself steady.

Shane’s orgasm builds and builds, and a brush of Ilya’s hand on his cock is all it takes for him to be spilling across the duvet.

Ilya pulls out to jerk himself off with a panting desperation, coming across Shane’s back with a gasp.

“Fuck,” Shane says afterwards, pressing a kiss to Ilya’s lips.

“Fuck,” Ilya agrees, laying back against the pillows for a second before he stands to grab a washcloth.

He brushes it gently over Shane’s back, the motion gentle and repetitive and Shane closes his eyes to sink into the sensation.

“You should tie me,” Shane murmurs. He doesn’t even know where the words come from.

Ilya's hand slips on Shane's back. “What?”

“You should tie me. Tie my hands.” Shane opens one eye to glance at Ilya, whose motion has stopped. “You know. Sexually.”

“I—” Ilya’s eyes are wide and locked on Shane. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

And just like that, they’re fucking again in the mess that they made, Ilya’s eyes hungry and Shane already running over the logistics of how Ilya might tie his hands to the headboard.

When Shane gets home to Scott’s that night, Ilya heading to his game, the house is empty. There’s a faint spring breeze wafting through the window, bringing with it the scent of pastries from the cafe next door. It reminds Shane of that cake that he and Ilya made, makes him want to make something like it again. His eyes are drawn to the spotting bananas left on the countertop.

And so, Shane decides to make banana bread.

I should give some to Ilya, he thinks as he mashes up the bananas into a thin paste. He thinks about how Ilya might steal a piece before it’s properly cooled, or try to help Shane and get batter all over himself. Shane finds that he’s smiling to himself at the thought.

As he measures out each ingredient, the process reminds Shane of all those times he obsessively measured his food out to the gram, when he used a calculator to find the specific micronutrients and the calories and all of that stuff he knew, deep down, wouldn’t make a difference.

It reminds Shane of that slow, methodical process, but without the current of worry running through his mind, the worry of stats and scouts and the draft that was hanging over him. Now, it just feels like something gradual and specific on the way to make something delicious. Something that he can share with Ilya.

That thought makes Shane’s mind drift towards Ilya today, as he sifts the flour into the bowl. It makes him think of Ilya’s voice as he told Shane he was beautiful. Of the way that Ilya’s lips had pressed to Shane’s stomach and brushed over his stretch marks.

It makes Shane think of the words that he had wanted to say, and what Ilya would do if he said them.

Maybe it’s the way that his mind seems to mellow as he bakes, but something inside of Shane makes him think that maybe, just maybe, Ilya wouldn’t hate Shane if he said it.

Maybe he’d even say it in response.

The thought feels like a tiny glimmer of warmth in Shane’s chest, one that feels impossible in the weight of hockey and MLH and secrecy that surrounds it. But it’s there, anyway.

Shane imagines what Ilya would say: he'd be shocked, at first, would think it’s too good to be true. He might laugh at the way that Shane said it, at the awkward earnestness in his voice.

He could say it as they lay in bed together, Ilya’s hands tracing over his body in that curious way that he always does. Or maybe he would say it when they shared a meal, in the way that they did when they were at BU.

Shane finds his face growing into a soft smile at the thought of Ilya’s kisses and the way that he might look at Shane and finally see every part of him.

He knows, really knows, that it’s a hope that might not happen. That it probably wouldn’t.

But Shane can’t help but cling onto that glimmer of hope as he slides the banana bread into the warm oven, as he inhales the scent of sugar and cinnamon and thinks: Ilya will like this.

Shane waits on the couch for the banana bread to bake, a book held up to his face and his glasses perched on his nose. It’s a fiction book, the first he’s read in a long time. A recommendation of Scott’s.

The sound of keys in the lock breaks through the silence. Shane looks up to welcome Scott back home as he steps inside, and Shane looks up at his face, and—

Oh.

Scott’s face is downturned, bags under his eyes and he’s pressing his lips together like he’s trying to stop himself from crying.

There’s a bag of clothes in his hand, and—

“What’s wrong?” Shane blurts, jumping up from the couch.

Scott’s eyes flick to Shane like he hadn’t noticed him. He stops in his tracks.

“Kip—” Scott says, motioning with his hand. His voice is raw and the rest of the words don’t come out before his face is crumpling and he’s burying it in his hand.

“Shit, Scott, I’m so sorry.” Shane says. Right, he should—should—

Shane walks up to Scott, his eyes searching Scott’s face. He wraps a timid arm around him in a feeble attempt at a hug.

Scott goes stiff for a moment before his arms are wrapping around Shane’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“It’s the secrecy thing,” Scott says, his voice hoarse, into Shane’s shoulder. “I don’t know why I thought I could—it’s impossible.” The words cut off as he shudders, dropping the bag of clothes on the floor.

“Let me—let me help. Have you had dinner?” Shane asks.

“Yes,” Scott says. “I just—I just think I want to be alone, for a bit. I’m sorry.”

“That’s—that’s fine,” Shane blurts, taking a step back. “If—um—if there’s anything I can do…” he motions with his hand.

Scott nods. Heads to his room with the bag of clothes left abandoned on the floor.

Shane wanders around the room in a strange trance for the next few minutes. His eyes brush over all the remnants of Kip that are scattered throughout the room.

An old sock of his, on the carpet. The couch where Shane had found them kissing that first time. The other couch, where Shane had met Kip and he and Scott had kissed like their love was going to break through everything that stood in their way.

The breeze from the window now feels cold, and he really, really thought—he doesn’t know. He thought that someone like Scott—someone that impressive, that self-assured—that he could overcome anything. That the barriers of hockey and the media and everything else were just little hurdles that Scott could manage. Barriers that anyone could manage when they looked at someone like that.

Shane wants to slap himself in the face, to tell himself that those fantasies were never going to happen. They were never real, anyway. But Shane had hoped, anyway. Hoped more than he thought a pessimist like himself could ever hope.

Shane is snapped out of his trance by the smell of burnt banana bread. He rushes over to the oven, pulling open the door. A cloud of smoke wafts into his face, makes his eyes water and fills his nose with that pungent aroma.

The banana bread can’t be saved, of course, and Shane drops the whole chunk of charred mess into the bin with a thump.

The smell of burnt banana lingers in the apartment for the next few days, clinging to every surface and sticking to Shane no matter how much he showers and scrubs at his skin.

It makes Shane want to find his mom like he used to do, and ask her why things can't be the way he wants.

Some things are just like that, she always used to say.

Shane always thought of himself as a realist, like his mom.

He doesn't know when that changed.

Chapter 19

That evening, Shane calls his mom as scheduled. He looks at himself in the mirror for a few minutes before he calls her, fixing his hair even though she can’t even see it.

“Hi, honey,” she says. “How are you?”

“Good.” Shane ignores the way that his voice cracks at the word. He swallows tightly as she continues speaking.

“Great. Well done on your goal against LA, by the way. That was really impressive.”

“Thanks, mom,” Shane breathes.

“Oh—another thing: when are you planning to come home?”

“Oh, yeah.” Shane runs his hand along the hem of his hoodie, pulling at a loose thread. “I’ll—come home straight after the last game. A week and a half.”

“Right,” she says. Shane can hear her scribbling it down in her notebook. “That’ll be just in time for your dad’s birthday. I’ll tell you about the sponsorship stuff I’ve got lined up for the summer when you get home, then.”

“Okay.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“So—um, how are your friends?”

“Good,” Shane says. He tries to think of something to say. “Rose is doing a new acting project.”

“Oh—that sounds good.”

Silence stretches between them.

“Your dad has been doing lots of fishing lately. He’s excited for you to get back and do some more together.”

“Oh—yeah, I’d, um, like that too.”

“I can bring the phone over to him and you can have a chat, if you want?”

“Oh,” Shane says, his voice soft. “Okay, sure. I love you, mom.”

“I love you too, Shane,” Yuna says, and hands the phone over to David.

When Shane walks out of his bedroom, Scott is sitting at the kitchen table with his head bowed and his dinner in front of him. He’s staring off into the distance, the same way that he’s done for the past few days, lurking around the apartment like a shadow.

Shane sits on the couch, his eyes glazed as he stares at his own reflection on the TV. Normally, he’d read, or stretch, or do a tape review. He can’t seem to get himself to move, though.

“Night,” Scott murmurs as he stands up, taking his dishes to the sink. The plate clatters, cutting through the silence of the apartment.

“Good night,” Shane replies.

When Scott is back in his room, Shane takes his phone out. He presses rewind on the video of his interview about the pride tape, his leg jumping. He watches the camera pick up the way that his eyes widen when the interviewer asks the question, the way that he blurts out a non-answer and strides away.

It’s obvious, he thinks. It’s obvious that there’s something about pride tape that makes Shane Hollander shake.

He puts his phone down and stares at his reflection on the TV again. The cold breeze from the open window ghosts over the back of his neck, making the hairs raise.

His phone lights up next to him.

‘From: Ilya Rozanov.’ Shane glances away. He tries to hold himself back from looking, pulling his lower lip into his mouth and pushing his teeth into it until it hurts. He holds his hands fixed at his sides. Five seconds go by, and then Shane is picking up his phone with a sigh.

Five seconds is a record amount of time, at least.

The texts have been even more frequent, now that Ilya’s left on his roadtrip to the West Coast for a couple of games. They’re filled with observations about the weather, about his teammates, jokes with pictures attached that only they would understand. Memes, Shane’s pretty sure they’re called. He replies to each one with some remark that he spends far too long constructing.

This text, when Shane opens it, makes Shane’s thumb hover over the screen. It’s an image of a book, one with a picture of a ranch at sunset that stretches into the distance. It looks like the book Shane’s reading right now, the one that Scott had recommended to him.

Ilya noticed what he was reading?

It’s kind of a trashy book, really. One that Shane would be embarrassed to be reading in front of anyone else.

‘Would you like this book?’ Ilya’s text reads beneath the photo.

Shane thumbs over the keys, biting his lip and searching his mind for the right thing to say.

‘You don’t have to—’ he starts. Backspaces.

‘Why are you—’

Shane sighs. His eyes return to the book. It looks like it has no intellectual value whatsoever. But it looks like the kind of thing that Shane might enjoy, too.

‘It looks good,’ he writes.

Shane sighs, and then clicks back onto the video of his pride tape interview. He presses play, again, and watches the way that his eyes widen at the words. He opens the search engine on his phone.

‘Pride tape scheme MLH,’ he types. It takes him to an Instagram page promoting the scheme. His grip on his phone tightens as he opens the comments.

“Keep politics out of the MLH,” the top comment reads. One thousand likes.

“The players don’t care about this LGBT stuff,” says the next. Five hundred likes.

Shane scrolls through the comments, reading each one, his eyes flicking across the page. His mouth is dry, a bitter taste sitting heavy on his tongue.

A text from Ilya pops up at the top of Shane’s screen.

This time, he swipes away the message before he can read it. He forces his eyes to return to the comments instead; he reads a few more, the breeze still cold on the back of his neck, before he shuts down his phone and watches the screen fade to black.

He needs to make dinner. And stretch, and plan, and do a tape review.

That night, Shane’s mind feels stuffed full, needling seeds of worry squeezing in until it feels ready to burst. It’s a splintering pressure, giving him a headache as he slides into bed. The salad that he’d forced himself to eat for dinner sits heavy in his stomach.

He wraps the covers tightly around himself as if they’re Ilya’s arms. It’s not the same.

Shane stares at the wall, time drifting and his mind like static.

Only when sleep refuses to come does he let himself remember what it was like, before. When all the worries had been pushed to the side. When he and Ilya had made cake together, and Ilya kissed him on the cheek and Shane had let the rest of the world drift away. It feels distant, now, like some far-fetched dream that happened in an alternate reality.

The thought occurs to him that Ilya’s t-shirt is still tucked away in his closet. Shane turns over in bed, tries to push away the desire to go and put it on. He sighs, closes his eyes, pulls the cover tighter.

Five minutes is all it takes for Shane to roll out of his duvet, pulling the top out of his closet and over his head. He tucks his nose into the cheap polyester. It hasn’t smelled like Ilya in a long time.

It feels heavy on Shane’s back as he wraps himself back up tight in his duvet.

Shane drives Scott to their game the next day. Scott is silent, his gaze directed out of the window at the blur of the suburbs of New York as they head for the rink.

“Thanks,” Scott mutters as he gets out of the car. Shane watches from the car as he strides towards the rink, his suit perfectly tailored and his coffee tumbler in hand. The image of a perfect hockey player.

The appearance of a staff member with a camera in hand snaps Shane out of his trance. He gets out of the car, slamming the door shut and following after Scott. He straightens his suit ready for the cameras at the entrance, takes a breath. Tries to calm the rising tide of panic. Tries to plaster a smile across his face for the camera.

The game is against St Louis; both teams are sloppy, both give away the puck and miss the net more times than Shane can count. When the puck finds the net, it’s lucky, deflected off Shane’s stick. The crowd is quieter tonight, and the players hardly celebrate, Shane earning a few slaps on the back before the puck is back in play.

There’s a bone-deep exhaustion in Shane’s limbs, one that he hasn’t felt in a long time, making him sluggish as he passes. He feels the eyes of the crowd on his back, sharp gazes that scrutinise his every move. Poised for when Shane inevitably steps out of line.

When the hit comes, Shane is trying to carve a path up the wing, trying to push through the defenseman. One second, the puck is on his stick and his legs are pumping beneath him. The next, he’s being slammed into the boards with a thump, the cold, hard ice rising up beneath him, the crowd quiet.

It’s a routine hit. Completely legal. But Shane’s knee hits the floor first. A line of red-hot pain shoots through it; he tries to push himself up, to get his legs beneath him, but the ice is falling towards his face. He tries again. This time, his leg is beneath him. He wobbles for a moment, the noise of the arena dulled around him. Somehow, he manages to skate away.

It’s nothing, Shane tells himself. Hockey players don’t stop for little injuries like this.

His world has narrowed down to a pinprick, to the throb of his knee and the blur of the puck alone. His breath sounds too loud, rasping as he skates back, as he searches for the puck on the ice, as his legs work and work but can’t seem to move fast enough.

And suddenly, the ref’s whistle is screeching out across the ice and Scott is next to Shane. His arm wraps around Shane’s shoulders and pulls him over to the bench.

“You fucker,” Scott says. “Go get it checked out.”

The words take a while to register in Shane’s mind. By the time they do, he’s being helped down the tunnel by a trainer, being led to the examination room. He’s being pushed to sit on the table and there’s a hand on his leg, pulling off his skates.

Shane’s mind is pulled back to that time in the gym, with Ilya. When Ilya had cradled his knee in his lap and touched it like Shane meant something to him.

It’s nothing like that now, as the cold of the trainer’s hands wraps around his knee, pushing it upwards and examining it like Shane isn’t attached.

Shane has to miss the final two games of the season, in the end. They give him a brace that encases his knee, restricting its movement, and offer him some painkillers, which Shane declines, of course. He’s a hockey player. Scott drives Shane back home, shooting him concerned glances every so often.

Ilya and his mom both text him about the injury. ‘I’m okay,’ he replies to both of them, and puts his phone face down on the table.

He offers to make dinner for himself and Scott, ignoring the tremble in his hands as he rinses the quinoa, exhaling shakily as he puts the salmon in the oven, hobbles back to the countertop. Scott doesn’t say anything when Shane can’t bring himself to eat any of it, just looks at him curiously and thanks him for the meal. Recovery won’t happen if he doesn’t eat, he tells himself. Improvement won’t happen.

But Shane can’t help himself, can’t help it when saliva pools in his mouth and when he can hardly swallow as he looks at the food.

It tastes like the same nausea that Shane had felt in juniors, when he’d been hit in the face by a puck and had broken his jaw. They’d put some wire in his mouth and told him to have a liquid diet: for those three weeks, his mom had given him soup for every meal, until it tasted so vile that he felt nauseous at the sight.

The soup hadn’t given any nutritional value to him, anyway, so Shane had just… stopped. For the final few days of the diet, he’d poured the watery soup down the sink and let his stomach grow cavernous with hunger and his muscles deteriorate.

Shane’s mom had given him ice cream, eventually, looking at him with something funny in her eyes. She’d told him that players who didn’t eat couldn’t get better. That it was okay for Shane to eat ice cream, as long as he ate something.

Things had returned to normal, mostly, when he’d returned to solid food. But now that same nausea is back, that feeling that he can’t tolerate the taste of the food for one more second. Like he needs his mom to give him some ice cream and tell him it’s okay.

She wouldn’t even give him ice cream, now. He’s too old, and he can eat normal, solid food anyway.

Shane doesn’t eat the food, in the end. His mom’s not there to help him, and neither is Ilya. It’s just Shane Hollander, alone, with salmon that’s gone cold and a knee that’s aching in its too-tight brace.

Ilya gets back the next day.

“Are you okay?” he asks as he opens the door of his apartment, his eyes tracing over Shane’s face.

It makes Shane breathless, a little. “I’m fine. How was the roadtrip?”

“Fine. Missed you.” Ilya pulls Shane in by his waist, plants a kiss on his lips.

He pulls back to look at Shane. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” Shane says. He wants to get onto his knees and take Ilya into his mouth to make the static in his head go away. But he can’t kneel, because of the brace, so he just looks at Ilya and swallows tightly. “Oh,” he says after a moment, and reaches into his bag.

He takes out the t-shirt and hands it to Ilya.

“What’s this?”

“Your t-shirt.”

Ilya looks back up at Shane, tracing over his face. Shane tries to keep his face as blank as possible.

“It’s yours,” Ilya says. “I gave it to you. The day of the final at BU.”

Shane looks back down at it. It’s worn thin from all times he’s worn it, the lurid yellow of the Adidas logo starting to fade.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry.” His knee hurts in its brace.

Ilya’s hands reach out to grasp Shane’s shoulders, and he looks into his eyes. Shane doesn’t know what he sees. He doesn’t know he feels himself, really.

This close, Ilya’s face looks as pretty as it always has done. There’s a blond curl falling into his face, a dusting of stubble along his chin. His lips are tinged slightly pink. Shane wants to kiss them again.

He swallows instead.

“Let me make food for you, okay?” Ilya says.

Shane nods, his shoulders held tight.

He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him as he stares down at his knee wrapped in the brace, sitting on the couch whilst Ilya cooks. It’s not even a bad injury. He’ll be able to train over the summer as normal, and to help his team try to get into the playoffs next season.

He’ll still be able to help. His knee will work, he can still play. He’s fine.

Ilya brings two plates over to the couch. They’re the same pancakes as before, one in the shape of the Stanley Cup—sort of—the other in the shape of a star, both with yoghurt and fruit on them.

Ilya hands the star-shaped one to Shane, sitting next to him on the couch. “Pancakes for lunch,” he says with a smile. “Healthy recipe, I promise. Same as before.”

Shane lifts his face into a smile and takes the plate. His hands are trembling; he picks up the fork and starts to cut some of the pancake. When it’s time to lift it to his mouth, he can’t seem to get his arm to move.

His knee throbs in its brace.

Ilya looks across at him. He offers a curious smile. It looks like the kind of smile people do when they’re trying to be encouraging, Shane thinks.

You don’t need to worry about me, he wants to say, and to show Ilya with a smile that he likes his pancakes, that he’s grateful for his cooking. That he loves Ilya.

But his throat is too dry, his hands too unsteady, his knee aching in the brace. He can’t say it; he can’t eat.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says, and puts the fork down. It clatters against the plate too loudly.

Ilya’s still watching him. “Shane,” he says, and moves a hand towards his back. It slides up slowly, the way that he did so many times at BU. The way that Shane had craved so many times since. But now it just feels like a reminder of something that Shane shouldn’t have.

He wants to cry. He wants to fold himself into Ilya’s arms.

He wants to say sorry, to slap himself in the face and tell himself to eat. To be grateful for what Ilya cooked for him. To stop himself from becoming the old Shane Hollander, the one who only thinks about calories, the one who’s annoying and boring. The one who he himself doesn’t like, really.

But he can’t.

“Sorry,” Shane says. His voice is raw.

“No, no,” Ilya says. “I—let me cook you something else. Or nothing, Shane. It’s okay.” Shane doesn’t really hear the words.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and stands up.

“Is it something I’ve—” Ilya starts.

“No, no, just—I’m sorry,” Shane repeats as he heads for the door, limping from the brace around his knee. He wants to rip it off and throw it across the room. Instead, he picks up his bag, puts it over his shoulder. His eyes are burning with unshed tears.

“Shane,” Ilya says, standing up from the couch. “Is it your knee?”

“No, just. Sorry. I’ll text you, I promise.”

A hand reaches out and wraps around Shane’s wrist. “Please,” Ilya whispers, his eyes looking deep into Shane’s. Shane takes a step backwards; his breath is caught in his throat, that same tremble in his hands that he had when he held the snickers wrapper in his hand in the dining hall, all those months ago.

More than a year ago, now, he supposes. He feels like he’s watching all the progress he made crumbling in front of his eyes. Ilya reaches out again.

Shane flinches away.

He swallows back the bitter taste in his mouth and hobbles the rest of the way to the door. Ilya is silent. Shane can’t look at him. He pulls open the heavy door of Ilya’s apartment, hobbles out into the corridor.

The door slams shut behind him. The t-shirt is still in Ilya’s apartment, he realises.

And then he’s alone, limping down an empty corridor, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.

When Shane gets back into Scott’s apartment, Scott is there, sitting on the couch with his lunch in front of him: a salad of some sort.

“Hey,” he says when he sees Shane, his eyes tracing over him. His brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

Shane nods. His eyes are still burning, and he can’t walk quickly enough to his room because of the pain in his knee. He makes it halfway across the kitchen before Scott gets up.

“Hey, hey,” he says, striding towards Shane. “What’s up?”

Shane just swallows again. His knee throbs. “I just—messed up.” His voice cracks on the final word, and his throat is aching, his vision blurring. “Fuck,” he says, and lifts a shaky hand to his mouth as if he can stop the tears from welling up.

He presses it tighter and tighter, so tight he thinks it might leave a red mark over his mouth. Tears begin to drip from his eyes anyway. They sting his eyes and run down over his hand where it’s pressed to his mouth.

And then Scott’s arms are around him, pulling him close into the warmth of his body.

“Sorry,” Shane says, his voice wobbling. He can taste the salty tears in his mouth, now. They make the bitter taste in his mouth get worse.

“It’s okay,” Scott murmurs.

When Shane’s tears stop, Scott leads him over to the couch.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says.

Shane looks up at him: his eyes are steady on Shane, his brow furrowed.

“I messed up,” Shane says. He looks up at Scott again, who nods, telling Shane to continue.

“I’ve been—dating someone,” Shane says. “But I messed up, with—um, food.”

Scott’s eyes shift in recognition. He glances down at the salad sitting on the coffee table, then back up at Shane. “You want me to—?”

“Oh—no, no, it’s fine,” Shane says.

There’s a moment of awkward silence. “Then what happened?” Scott asks, and shifts closer on the couch.

“I didn’t want to eat what he cooked for me. I couldn’t. And then I just, like—ran away.”

“It’s been—going on for a while, the food stuff?” Scott asks.

“Yeah. I guess so. It was better, for a while,” Shane says.

“But now it’s worse?”

Shane nods. It’s silent, again.

“Have you ever thought about, like—professional help? The team has a psychologist. And there are others, too. They would keep everything private.”

“I saw one, once, before.” Shane swallows. He thinks about what she told him. Your behaviour lines up with what we might expect from people on the autism spectrum. Then he thinks about Ilya, about how he apologised when Shane was the one who couldn’t eat his food. About how Shane is messing up this thing with Ilya, this thing that feels like it might be the best thing in his life. That is the best thing in his life.

“But maybe—maybe I could try, again,” Shane says.

There’s a beat of silence before Scott speaks. “I’m sorry if I was distant, lately,” he says. “The breakup with Kip was—really hard, you know. I’m not really, uh, over it.”

“You should try again,” Shane blurts out.

Scott glances up.

“You shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

Scott pauses for a moment. “I don’t know if Kip wants that. The secrecy, it was… hard for him. Hard for me, too.”

Shane doesn’t say anything. “Everything is shit,” he blurts out.

Scott laughs. “Yeah,” he says.

They sit on the couch for a long time, after that. Shane researches psychologists with his hand unsteady on his laptop, whilst Scott packs a bag up around him.

Shane looks through rows and rows of psychologists. He finds himself criticising each one for the way that their biography is worded, for having an office that’s more than a thirty minute drive, for the lights in their office looking too bright.

He shuts the laptop and puts it on the couch next to him, exhaling slowly. Maybe—maybe he can just do this tomorrow.

Shane doesn’t ask where Scott is going, when he heads towards the door. He knows, already.

Scott stops, turns back to look at Shane. “He might say no,” he says.

Shane pauses. “I think…you should still try, though,” he says. He remains frozen on the couch.

Scott waits for a moment, and then he nods, taking a deep breath in. “Thanks, Shane,” he says, and smiles across at him.

Shane finds his face lifting into a timid smile in return. “That’s okay,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

When the door clicks shut behind Scott, the apartment is left draped in silence. A bird sings outside; a car drives past. Shane opens up his laptop again.

He scrolls back up through the rows of psychologists, back to a psychologist he’d dismissed for her office being forty minutes away. Specialising in eating disorders, autism, her biography reads.

Shane looks at it for a long time. He thinks about what his team would say, if they knew. What Rose and Ilya would say. What his mom would say.

And then Shane’s hand is moving across his laptop, filling in his information, pressing book session with a soft click.

He’s not sure he cares very much, anymore, what they would say.

As the sun sets behind Shane, the golden light filtering through the windows and dappling across the floor, Shane makes dinner for himself. He chooses Asian food, this time, finding a recipe on his laptop and following the instructions. It’s a rice dish, with vegetables and beef. He doesn’t recognise the name for it, even though it’s Japanese.

He measures out each ingredient with his normal precision, losing himself in adding a sprinkle of different seasonings, like the recipe suggested, then tasting some of the rich broth and adding a sprinkle more.

When it’s done, the aroma of rice and spices filling the apartment, Shane takes the steaming bowl and sits down at the table. He exhales slowly, his eyes taking in his creation. He takes out his phone and takes a photo of the food, steam wafting up into the camera. The shutter clicks. Shane places his phone face-down on the table, and takes a deep lungful of air.

He picks up his spoon and takes a bite, feeling the texture of the rice on his tongue and the warm richness of the broth. Next time he should cook the beef for a little less time, he thinks. Maybe make more rice than the recipe calls for.

He chews steadily, and picks up his phone, finding a blog about Japanese food and reading through it as he eats.

When he looks up, the whole bowl is gone.

Shane categorises every corner of his body for that same bitter nausea, for the sharp thoughts that dig into his mind and make him shake.

They’re not there, any more.

Shane waits for a moment before he continues scrolling through the website, looking at different meals to eat instead. I should cook this for Ilya, he thinks. His heart pangs at the thought.

He looks down at his watch. Seven o’clock. Ilya will be just about to start cooking dinner. Shane looks towards the door that Scott walked out of just an hour before.

Shane’s phone lights up next to him, buzzing incessantly. From: Scott, written across the screen.

Shane jumps. He looks down at it. Swallows. Picks it up with trembling hands.

”Scott?” he says.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Scott’s voice is light as he says: ”Kip said yes.”

In a split second, it’s decided. Shane reaches out and grabs his keys.

Chapter 20

Chapter Notes

Sorry if people got a notification that this story updated a few days ago. I was doing some editing and shuffled some chapters around which I believe made it send an update email. The update is real this time though!

Shane’s hand taps against the steering wheel as he drives to Ilya’s. It’s a slow rhythm, at first, in time with his breaths in and out.

I messed up, he thinks. Fuck, I really messed up. Why did he leave Ilya like that?

His hand gets faster, his breathing too, the tapping sound filling the silence of the car. It sounds deafening, abrasive against his ears, but he can’t seem to stop. All the energy in his body seems to have concentrated itself in his hand.

The image of Ilya when the article about his mother was released is burned into Shane’s mind; he can smell the stench of cigarettes in his apartment, can see the way that Ilya had curled in on himself like he was trying to make himself invisible.

He might be like that now, because of you, Shane thinks. No, you’re being arrogant.

A car speeds past him. Its engine revs, Shane jumps.

His hand gets faster on the steering wheel.

Tap tap tap tap tap.

Shane still hears it when he strides into Ilya’s apartment. He heads for the stairs of the fire escape, like usual. Stops, turns around. Heads for the elevator.

Ilya might be waiting. Who cares if someone might see him?

Shane watches as the red writing flicks: floor one, two, three. Each one feels like an eternity.

His hand still moves at his side, like it’s tapping against an invisible steering wheel; it continues as he strides down the corridor, reaching Ilya’s door. It looks bigger, more imposing than Shane remembers. He brings his hand up, knocks on the door with a hollow sound. Shane stands stock-still. There’s a noise from inside the apartment, feet making their way towards the door.

It swings open.

“Shane,” Ilya says. His face has that same blank mask that Shane hasn’t seen in a long time.

“Ilya,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

He feels Ilya’s eyes tracing over him. “Are you okay?” Ilya asks.

“Yes.” Ilya’s apartment is dark inside. “I’m sorry for leaving. It wasn’t because of you.”

A door shuts down the corridor. Shane hears footsteps walk behind him, sees Ilya’s eyes wander over the person. When Ilya looks back at Shane, his eyes are slightly widened.

“You don’t care about—?” Ilya asks.

“It’s fine,” Shane says. Maybe he’ll regret it later. Other people don't seem to matter right now, though. He takes a breath. “I just—I was struggling with food, again. Because of things. Like the injury. It wasn’t your fault at all. And I’m sorry I left.”

Ilya’s eyes are distant, somehow, looking at Shane but not looking at him.

Shane opens his mouth. His heart is strangely steady in his chest, his hand settled at his side. This is it, he supposes.

“I—” Shane starts. “This thing, with us. I want it to be—”

Ilya’s eyes look at Shane, at last. They’re steady, focussed on Shane’s with wide pupils like he’s taking in every part of him that he can. Shane thinks, maybe, that Ilya already knows what he’s going to say.

“I want this thing with us to be—” Shane says.

Ilya’s mouth moves, once, almost imperceptibly. “Shane,” he whispers. His mouth trembles. “Don’t do this to me.”

“Do what?” Shane’s voice is hardly above a whisper.

“You know.” Ilya swallows. The sides of his mouth are downturned. “You know we can’t.”

Shane doesn’t move. “Why not?” The words come out of his mouth like a breath of air.

The corridor is silent, the words still lingering on Shane’s lips. Why not? he wants to say again, and beg Ilya to just look at him and tell him why.

You told me you wanted your mom to love you.

Why can’t you want me to love you?

“Why not?” Shane says again. It’s louder this time.

Ilya’s eyes aren’t looking at Shane again. His body is still, poised like he’s ready for a face-off, the puck about to drop. Like Shane is a predator and he is the prey; like this is life-or-death. Like this isn’t Shane trying to tell Ilya he loves him.

Shane is silent. “You don’t love me?” he whispers at last. He expects tears to be stinging his eyes, for his chest to be aching and full of the love that Ilya won’t take. Instead, his chest feels empty, like his love for Ilya is pouring out across the floor.

“Of course I do,” Ilya says. His eyes are desolate. Like he’s telling Shane something devastating; like he’s admitting his deepest secret in the confession box.

What a mess I’ve made, Shane thinks.

Somehow, though, that mess feels relieving. It’s better, so much better, than the rules and diets and the eyes of the crowd that mattered more than his own. At least now, when Ilya looks into Shane’s eyes, he sees every part of Shane Hollander standing in front of him. Even the parts that he doesn’t want.

Shane doesn’t need to tell Ilya to look at him. Ilya is doing it already. Because he has to. Because Shane is here, in front of Ilya.

Shane nods. It’s silent. “That’s okay,” he says. “I understand.”

When he turns away, he hears Ilya’s voice, a whisper, behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says.

Shane walks away. He imagines his love spilled out across the corridor, making a mess under his feet, sticky as spilt blood.

He doesn’t care about the mess. Instead, he just feels that emptiness inside of him where Ilya should be. Where Ilya could be if he just let Shane love him. Shane looks at the floor, at his feet treading along it. For once, for a moment, he hates hockey.

He hates the teams and the media, he hates Ilya’s father and what he did to Ilya’s mother. He hates it, he hates it, he hates it.

Why can’t you want me to love you?

When Shane gets back to Scott’s apartment, he lets the silence envelop him as he spends the next day packing up his stuff into suitcases and lines them up at the door.

One, he’ll take home. The rest he’ll take to the new apartment that he finds when he’s sitting on the plane back home with strangers around him. He makes an offer without looking at the photos of the apartment.

As the plane takes off, he watches the city grow smaller beneath him until it looks like a lego set. He imagines Ilya beneath him, a tiny figure sitting alone in his apartment. Shane keeps looking down for a long time after, until only waves of white clouds surround him and New York is gone.

He watches a movie for the first time in a long time. He can watch hockey tapes later, he supposes. An empty summer is stretching out ahead of him.

When his flight lands, his dad is there to pick him up.

“Shane,” he smiles, and Shane smiles too; he lets himself be pulled into a hug and to feel the arms of his dad around him.

“Happy Birthday,” Shane says. The words sound hollow.

They drive back home in amicable silence, exchanging the odd word about New York and the hockey season. Shane finds himself talking about Rose more than about hockey; his dad seems surprised, too, looking over at him in curiosity as he talks. He doesn’t talk about Ilya, of course.

When Shane gets home, his mom is there.

“Shane,” she says, and pulls him into her arms.

“I missed you, mom.”

“Me too.”

They sit at the kitchen table together, assembling the presents in the centre.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Yuna says, going into a side room.

When she comes back, there’s something that looks like a cheesecake in her hands. Shane blushes as they sing happy birthday, his voice deep and awkward compared to his mother’s.

“I thought you don’t like cheesecake?” Shane says to his mom when the singing has finished.

“Oh, I don’t,” she says. “But David and I wanted to make something that you could eat, too. We thought you wouldn’t want a cake so I made this protein cheesecake instead. Thirty grams of protein per serving.”

There’s something that looks like watery jam—probably blended strawberries, around the edges of the cheesecake. The cheesecake itself looks thick, like that lactose-free protein yoghurt that Shane has forced himself to eat too many times.

He looks back up at his mom. She’s smiling at him; she’s happy. Of course she is, because she made something that Shane would like. Because Shane Hollander doesn’t eat lactose. He doesn’t eat processed sugar. He doesn’t eat cake, for God’s sake.

Shane Hollander just thinks about calories and macros and micronutrients. He can’t celebrate a birthday, and if he doesn’t, no one else can either.

What a mess I’ve made, Shane thinks.

“You don’t have to make that for me, anymore,” he says. “You can have cake, if you want.” His voice is surprisingly steady as he looks up at his mother. He wonders if she will laugh: the idea that her son, her prodigy, wants to indulge in something.

Yuna looks down at him. “I only want to make something that you’ll eat.” Her smile is uncertain, her gaze curious.

“I know. I just don’t think that I want to be like that, anymore. I think I want to eat cake, sometimes.”

“What about that diet you were doing?” There’s a line between her eyebrows, like she’s trying to understand where the son who she raised went.

I’m still here, Shane wants to say.

“I don’t—I don’t think that worked. For me.”

There’s a beat of silence. “We can do that, can’t we Yuna?” David says.

“Yes,” she says hesitantly, glancing back at Shane. “I just thought—”

“It’s okay,” Shane says. There’s a beat of silence. The cheesecake sits untouched on the table, the house motionless. And then Yuna nods, slowly, and begins to cut up the cheesecake. Barely a quarter of the cheesecake is used up by the time that she’s given them each a slice. She doesn’t take one for herself, of course: she doesn’t like cheesecake.

She looks down at the cheesecake like there’s something wrong with it, like she’s trying to figure out what it is but can’t find it.

I’m sorry, Shane wants to say. I don’t think I want to be that way any more.

Shane takes a bite of the cheesecake instead. It’s thick, almost unbearably so, with the vaguely acidic taste of that lactose-free protein yogurt.

When they’re finished, Shane goes into the living room by himself. The room is wide, with bookshelves that stretch towards the ceiling. Shane has always loved this room, the couch where he used to sit with his mother and watch the Metros play, where he ate those silly artificial cakes with her, a long time ago.

On one of the shelves are rows of Yuna’s notebooks, dated for every six months and full of everything in Shane’s life since he was nine. Shane has never looked at them properly: they seemed private, full of everything that Yuna has achieved in Shane’s life.

Is it written in the pages there why Shane got second in the draft? Why he fell short to Ilya Rozanov?

Are the faults in Shane’s play, in his diet, in his attitude, in his ambition, written on the pages in her uniform font?

Shane thinks he already knows the answer, as he reaches out towards a journal, bound in thick black leather, dated in elegant gold writing six months ago. It’s crammed with sheets of paper, each one carefully stuck to the pages, with a distinct smell of paper that’s been well-worn. Shane leafs through the first few pages, titled June.

A copy of the draft order is pinned there: Brooklyn Scouts, first overall. New York Admirals, second overall. On the next page, details about one of the sponsorship deals Shane did. On the next, analysis of his play over the summer: fitness has faltered slightly, more upper body training needed. Shot has improved. Backhand now excellent.

On the next page: diet seems adequate, but seems to be undereating. How to help? *Note: July - problem seems to be fixed. Will keep an eye on it.

Shane’s hand trembles as he turns the page.

2008 MLH draft: Shane Hollander, second overall!!!!!

Shane swallows; his hand traces over the line of exclamation marks. That seems so unlike Yuna that for a moment he wonders if someone else wrote it. He finds his face growing into a smile at the sight, at Yuna’s excitement for him.

He lets out a breath, looks down: a photo is stuck on the page. It shows Shane, sitting at the table in the arena on the night of the draft. He’s looking across at another table, unaware of the photo. And—oh. He’s looking at Ilya, a little figure in the back of the photograph.

Shane turns the page; the trembling of his hand grows. There’s something stuck in his throat.

Another photo: Shane walking into the arena, looking at the rows of seats. And another: Shane standing next to his dad, waiting to be seated. And another: Shane standing on stage, his eyes wide and the jersey of the New York Admirals clutched in his hand.

Another, and another, and another. There are pages of photos. Shane flips to the back of the book: photos of Shane sit amongst the notes and the sponsorship deals. Most are taken without him noticing: David and Shane at the supermarket, Shane lying on a sun-lounger by the lake. A picture of the quinoa dinner Shane made them during the summer.

Shane’s eyes blur with sudden tears. He puts the volume back on the shelf, squeezing it between the other ones. He moves down the shelf; with an unsteady hand he picks up another, titled for the first six months of the year 2000.

On the first page, a picture of ten-year-old Shane, hockey stick in hand, wearing a Metros jersey in front of their outdoor rink. He’s beaming at the camera.

First time playing together! Yuna has written underneath. Shane smiles again, his eyes blurring more and more until the words are hardly legible.

He flips through the next few pages, through the details about organising his game, through analysis and opportunities for him.

He reaches another photo: ten-year-old Shane is sitting on the couch in the living room, his legs swinging off the edge. It’s taken from behind, the Metros playing on the TV, Shane’s eyes fixed on the screen. In his hands is one of those shitty cakes they used to make. It has sprinkles on the top; there are two teaspoons in it. One for Shane, one for Yuna.

For some reason, that photo is the one that makes the lump in Shane’s throat grow, makes it painful. He lifts a hand to press against his mouth like it’ll stop the tears that are beginning to drip down his face, wet and salty. They land on the pages with soft sounds, and Shane brushes them away.

He looks down at the photo again, and then across at the empty couch. The cushions are perfectly puffed out, symmetrical, unused. Shane looks at the coffee table where the cake had sat in the photo; the blank TV.

Tears drip down his face, silent.

The door slowly opens behind him. Shane hears it; he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t want Yuna to see the tears.

“Shane?” she says. There’s a hand on his shoulder, so he turns. His mother’s eyes are wide as she takes in the wetness of his face, the journal in his hand. “What’s wrong?”

Shane looks down at the photo again, Yuna’s eyes following his.

“I just miss this,” he says.

Yuna is silent. She brings a hand up to hold the journal, brushing her thumb over the glossy surface of the photo. She looks across into Shane’s eyes. “I’m sorry about the cheesecake,” she says.

Her eyes are wide, like she’s trying to take in all of him and understand what each part of his expression means.

“I know,” Shane says. He looks back at his mother, silent. As she looks back, Shane sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes. He’s not sure what makes her realise: maybe it’s the memory of when Shane broke his jaw, and threw the soup down the drain instead of eating it. Maybe it’s when he sat frozen in front of his breakfast this summer. Maybe it’s something else, filed away in the journals.

Shane doesn’t know. But he supposes it doesn’t matter, really, as she looks at Shane now. She sees him anyway; she sees her son, her prodigy, her golden boy, but she also sees Shane. Shane feels as if he’s finally managed to split himself open and show her how much he’s tried. It’s not painful, though. He’s just glad that she can see him fully, now.

“Let’s do this again,” his mother says, looking down at the photo. “How does that sound?”

“Good,” Shane whispers. Another tear rolls down his cheek. He sniffs, like he’s a child.

“I booked an appointment with a psychologist,” Shane says as they drive to the seven-eleven. He keeps his eyes on the road, on the light of the sun in front of him that dapples golden through the trees.

“That’s great,” Yuna says. “I mean it,” she adds after a moment. “I’m really proud.”

Shane just looks at the road ahead. His tears are dried, but he wants to cry again in the arms of his mother.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “If I made it worse for you.”

Shane nods. He can’t find the right words.

At the store, they each buy a pack of the shitty store-bought cake mixture: Shane vanilla, Yuna red velvet. When they get home, Yuna measures out the butter, frowning as she levels off the top of the measuring cup with such precision it makes Shane smile. They really are the same, in a lot of ways. Shane reads the instructions too, checking after every step.

When the cakes are done, filling the house with a sweet, artificial scent, they put icing and sprinkles on the top. Shane brings one to his dad, sitting in another room.

“Do you want to eat it with us?” Shane asks.

His dad shakes his head: there’s something knowing in his eyes as he looks up at Shane.

So Yuna and Shane sit together on the same couch from ten years ago. They each take a spoonful of cake: it tastes artificial and cheap, of course, but it tastes better than anything Shane remembers. It makes him want to cry again. Shane thinks, momentarily, of the sugar he’s consuming; his shoulders tense.

But then his mom’s hand is sliding onto his shoulder, moving slowly up and down. Shane takes another bite, exhaling slowly.

“You should take a photo,” he says.

So Yuna takes out her phone, the camera shuttering as Shane smiles with the cake in hand.

When Shane puts the cake down with only a few bites left, his mom smiles across at him.

Slow progress, he thinks. It’s okay.

“Do you want to see the photos in my journals?” Yuna asks. Her voice is almost timid, like she’s not sure she’s doing the right thing.

Shane nods. Together, they look at the photos from ten years ago up until now. Shane rests his head on his mom’s shoulder as she flicks through it, her fingers brushing over each page. He wonders how she managed to take so many without him noticing, how she was looking at him when he didn’t even know.

“Can you teach me some Japanese recipes?” Shane asks.

Yuna looks across at him, surprised. “Of course. I have some old recipe books I can get out. Some recipes from my mother, too.”

Shane smiles, nods. He can cook some recipes for Ilya.

I think she wouldn’t be proud of me, now, Ilya had said, about his mother. The thought makes him stop. It makes Shane say, suddenly: “I’m seeing someone. Or I was. He doesn’t have any parents.”

Yuna shifts, minutely, next to him, then nods. Shane wonders if she already knew, somehow.

“If you get back together, I would love to meet him,” she murmurs, and leans down to kiss the top of Shane’s head. Shane moves closer.

“I would love that,” he says. “We can cook some Japanese food for him.”

Yuna smiles; a light laugh escapes her mouth, suddenly. Shane smiles too. He listens to the silence of the room, feeling the slow breathing of his mother against his ear. In and out.

Things aren’t so bad, in the end.

That night, Shane opens up his phone to the text thread with Ilya.

‘I meant what I said,’ he writes, and then sends the address of the new apartment he bought. ‘I’ll be here, over summer. If you ever want to talk.’ For once he doesn’t hesitate before he sends it.

Shane shuts his phone down, letting the screen fade to black. He turns over in bed; a loon caws in the distance. He imagines himself back in his dorm at BU. He imagines Ilya in his own bed across the room, the foolish anger that Shane had for him at that time.

Now, he would do anything to be back there again. To say: I love you to him.

Chapter End Notes

Happy ending still in store I promise!!

Next chapter is the last one [plus an epilogue]. This chapter felt very ambitious (and also a little cringey) but I wanted to give Shane the outcome he deserves with his mom, so hopefully it worked. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 21

Chapter Notes

Shane spends a week at home before he returns to New York. He goes fishing with his dad, watching the way that the sun reflects on the expanse of water. They don’t talk much. They don’t need to: David just wraps his arm around Shane’s shoulder, and Shane leans into it, and that’s enough.

With Yuna, Shane cooks Japanese meals, using the old recipe cards and cook books from his grandmother. They brush off the dust, stand side-by-side, and follow the instructions each night. Yuna takes a photo of the food when the family eats together; Shane watches, smiles.

Things are good, quiet, easy. It’s a sort of limbo, Shane thinks, where time is suspended and he’s waiting for something. He’s waiting for Ilya, he supposes. He’s waiting like Ilya will turn up on his doorstep and say, “Hello, Mr and Mrs Hollander.”

He waits, even though it won’t happen. He thinks of what his parents would say, and spends long hours looking out of the window. When one week has passed, he returns to New York.

He visits Scott, in the old apartment. Scott’s different now: his shoulders are loose, his gaze unrestrained. He hugs Shane when he sees him, says: “I think I want to come out, soon.”

Shane nods. Says he thinks Scott is brave. He imagines himself coming out, the eyes of the crowd watching him, knowing. He wonders if he’ll ever be ready for that.

Eight days after he last saw Ilya, Shane moves his things into his new apartment. There isn’t much, really: just the smell of a clean apartment and the throw cushions that Shane owns too many of. He looks around and thinks: this is it, now. This is my life.

Shane Hollander, golden boy. He’s not sure if that’s who he is, now.

He phones his mom: they discuss decorations, the summer weather. Things are good, quiet, easy. Shane spends the first day in his apartment watching New York out of the window. He sees people beneath him, like ants. People who don’t know about hockey, who don’t know who Shane Hollander is.

Things aren’t so bad, he thinks. I can make something new, for myself. Something small, something good, quiet, easy.

Shane Hollander is just Shane Hollander, now.

The doorbell rings. It’s a shrill, biting sound. The first time he’s heard it.

Shane stands, slowly. He walks towards the door; the metal handle is cold under his hand as he pulls it open.

“Shane,” Ilya says, breathless. His hair is styled differently: it looks like how it did in college, when he woke up in the mornings from the blaring of Shane’s alarm. There’s a flush on his cheeks, a duffel bag hanging off his shoulder, a bouquet of three mismatched flowers in his hand.

Shane doesn’t know what to say; so he opens the door and Ilya takes a nervous step forwards, bringing with him the smell of summer in New York, the sweet smell of the flowers in his hand. He stands in the entrance way. “I went to Russia,” he says.

Shane’s mouth opens, closes.

“I went to my mother’s grave,” Ilya says, like he’s reciting the words. “I talked to her about things. I won’t go back.”

Shane swallows. He wants to say something. Something comforting, maybe. Or is that wrong? Maybe Ilya wants something funny, easy.

In the end, he doesn’t have to decide. Ilya continues: “I got her some flowers. I saw my dad. I’ve left things, there. I’m not going back.”

Shane searches Ilya’s face. “Won’t you miss your mother?”

“I will,” Ilya says. “I love her. But I was talking to a grave. She’s not there. I was so afraid, before. I don’t know what of.”

Shane watches Ilya. Ilya looks back. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I was afraid that she wouldn't love me. I’m not afraid now, though.”

“That’s good,” Shane says. “I’m, um—I’m proud of you.” He smiles; it’s tentative, the kind of smile that’s a second away from melting into tears. He can feel them in his chest.

The duffel bag falls from Ilya’s shoulder, lands on the floor. Ilya doesn’t move. “Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy,” he says. He holds out the flowers with a trembling hand. “I love you, Shane.”

Shane’s mouth opens, then closes. And then he reaches out, takes the flowers. Their sweet scent fills the air.

His mouth twitches at the corner. And again, another twitch, and then a laugh is bubbling up inside of him; his mouth lifts into a grin, wide, jubilant. His breath is light, and suddenly he’s grinning at Ilya. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he says. Then: “I love you too.”

For a moment, it’s silent. There are tears glistening in Ilya’s eyes. And then they’re moving together, embracing, Ilya’s arms, body, soul wrapped around his.

“Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy,” Ilya murmurs again.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I love you with all my soul. It’s what my mama told me, a long time ago.”

Shane pulls his arms tighter around Ilya. Something cool brushes against Shane’s neck. He pulls back; it’s a silver necklace, a cross, hanging around Ilya’s neck.

“Is it new?” Shane asks.

“Sort of. It’s my mother’s. I didn’t want to wear it, before. But I want to wear it now.”

Shane nods, smiles. And then they’re kissing, the scent of the flowers around them, the taste of each other on their lips, the texture of each other under their hands.

“I love you,” Shane says, breathless and he pulls away, and then finds Ilya’s lips again. They’re warm, his cheeks are cold under Shane’s fingers. They pull closer, Ilya’s hands slide over Shane’s body.

“You were so brave, Shane,” Ilya says. “When you came to me. I was still pretending it wasn’t like that.”

Shane exhales, smiles. “Thanks.” He pushes his face into Ilya’s shoulder, feels the warmth of Ilya’s body seeping into his skin. “I’ve done a lot of things since then. Brave things, I think.”

“Tell me.” Ilya’s hand slides up Shane’s back. It moves softly, up and down.

“I’m going to see a psychologist. And I came out to my parents.”

Ilya’s arms wrap around Shane tighter.

“And I told them I liked someone. A man. And I talked to my mom about things. About a lot.”

“That—” Ilya pulls back. “That’s so good. You’re so good, Shane. I can’t believe I have you.”

“Of course you have me,” Shane says. “I’m yours.”

“I’m yours too,” Ilya whispers, his hand sliding into Shane’s hair.

Shane takes the flowers from Ilya; he puts them in a vase in the window-sill of his new apartment. They're framed by the sun: a foxglove, a lily, a rose, their smell filtering through the apartment. He opens the window to the breeze and the golden summer sun before he joins Ilya on the couch. They lie together; they kiss again, and again.

Shane pulls Ilya down to lie on his chest. He studies the boyish curls at the top of Ilya’s head like he did on the night of the final. He brushes his finger over a soft curl, smiles. Things aren’t good, quiet, easy any more. Shane has got Ilya: nothing will be easy. But he smiles anyway, tips his head back against the couch.

“I’ve never been this happy,” he says, and laughs at the ceiling. And Ilya laughs, too. Things aren’t easy. It’s Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov. Of course things won’t be easy.

Together, they laugh. And then Shane says: “do you want to get ice cream?”

Ilya lifts his head up to look at Shane, eyes wide. “Outside? Together?”

“Together.”

Chapter End Notes

Epilogue also posted!

Chapter 22: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

One Year Later:

“Tell me something you’ve always wanted to do,” Ilya says. “A fantasy. Or an idea, for sex.”

Shane grins up at Ilya, feeling the weight of his body where it’s straddling his waist. He runs his hand up Ilya’s arm; he takes Ilya’s hand into his, feels the weight of it and the calluses from hockey. He pulls back the layers of his mind, to his time at BU, to all the things he’s hidden away out of sight. “There is something,” he says. “Something from BU.”

Ilya pulls back, smiles. “Tell.”

“It’s weird, I guess. It’s from early on, when we shared a room. Before I knew I liked you.”

Ilya moves down the bed, sits between Shane’s legs. He slides his hands over Shane’s thighs; Shane shifts, sighs, continues.

“I had this thing where I wanted to be in a room of people. And they were people that you, uh—fucked, basically.” Shane looks across at the closet. Ilya’s grey t-shirt with the hideous yellow logo is hanging there, rippling with the breeze coming through the open window. “And I wanted you to look at those people, whilst I was standing there, waiting. And I was, uh—getting hard, whilst you looked at them. And they wanted you. But then—you looked at me, and you saw that I wanted you, too. And then—you, uh, fucked me in front of them.”

Ilya’s smiling fully now, looking down at Shane with his eyes wide, glimmering. “I can do that,” he says.

“I don’t—it’s just a fantasy,” Shane says. He smiles, too. Ilya knows everything about him. And Shane knows everything about Ilya, too: another fantasy shared is just another way they know each other.

“Whilst we were at BU?”

“Yeah.” Shane huffs out a laugh. “I came in my sleep, from it.”

Ilya gasps. “Shane Hollander. You’re dirty, huh? In the bed across the room?” He crawls forwards on the couch so that he’s straddling Shane’s hips, his weight pressing down into him.

“Yep.”

Ilya finds Shane’s lips. He runs his hand from Shane’s face, downwards, over his chest, past his waist. He pulls Shane’s sweats down, takes his cock into his hand, squeezes. Shane’s back arches.

“If I had known,” Ilya says. “I would have died. I wouldn’t have been able to take it. Shane Hollander, my captain, with his cute freckles and hair that’s way too short. I would have died.”

Shane laughs. “I would have died, too, if I knew you wanted anything more than sex with me.”

Ilya laughs. “I always wanted more than sex, with you,” he smiles, and presses a kiss to Shane’s lips. “I always knew you were special.” He squeezes Shane’s cock; Shane arches, gasps, the motion of Ilya’s hand speeds up.

“I hated you, you know,” Shane says.

“I knew. It was cute.”

“It wasn’t cute,” Shane smiles, running a hand up Ilya’s arm. “I was so jealous. Of Svetlana, and your hockey, and everything. I was so angry, and I wanted you to fuck me which just made it all worse.”

Ilya laughs. “You had nothing to be jealous of.” He pushes forwards, presses their cocks together, wraps a hand around them.

“That’s not true. The anger just made the sex hotter anyway. Are you gonna fuck me?”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr Hollander, so demanding.” Ilya reaches out for the lube, asks: “Do you want your hands free or no?”

“Not.”

Ilya smirks, he reaches out and ties Shane’s hand to the headboard. “So pretty, hmm?”

“Shut up.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Shane tips his head back against the pillow; he feels the softness of the ties where they move against skin, holding him firmly in place. He tips his face sideways into the cotton pillows where the scent of Ilya lingers; he breathes in once, twice, Ilya’s hand moving gently up and down his thigh.

Ilya has him.

“Ready?” Ilya asks.

“Yeah.”

And then Ilya’s hands are moving across his thigh and Shane is shifting his legs apart, opening up for Ilya; and Ilya is reaching downwards, running a circle along the plug where it’s nestled against Shane. He’s grasping it lightly and pulling, slowly, gently, and Shane is opening up around it.

“Ilya,” he gasps, as it drags along his insides, when it reaches the widest part and then finally Shane is open, ready for Ilya.

“Moya roza, you’re so good. So open for me. Ready?”

“Ready. Hurry up.” Shane looks up at Ilya, at his eyes that are studying Shane carefully and the hair that’s falling into his face. “Ilyushka,” he adds with a smile. And Ilya grins back, wide and glittering.

“Yes,” he says.

And then smooth, cold lube is being pressed to Shane, and Ilya is pressing in achingly slowly; Shane shifts his hips, says faster, but Ilya continues that slow slide with a grin. He opens Shane up around him, and Shane gasps, tips his head back, pulls against the ties.

“I missed this,” Shane says.

“It’s been less than twenty-four hours.”

“I still missed it.”

“Me too.”

Shane thinks back to yesterday night: the ache is still in his limbs from the way that he’d strained his muscles tight, when every part of him had tightened as he fought not to come. Ilya had held him down against the bed, had jerked himself off whilst Shane was helpless beneath him, feeling only the tensing and relaxing of Ilya where his cock was nestled inside.

“You like it?” Shane had asked afterwards.

“Yeah,” Ilya had said. “I never thought I would try it. I like fucking you too much, though.”

In the hoarseness of his voice he remembers the way that he’d begged Ilya yesterday, the way he’d almost cried as Ilya brought him to the edge once, and again, had studied Shane so closely that every movement told him more than words ever could. He remembers how his back had arched when he finally came, how the feeling had crashed over his entire body and left him shivering in Ilya’s warm arms, the warm sleepiness of their bath together. How Ilya had slid a plug into him afterwards so that he’d been open and ready for the rest of the day.

“Last night was so good,” Shane says.

“So good.” And then Ilya’s movements are starting: a slow, easy press of his hips forwards. And Shane presses down in return, the ties sliding over his wrists, pulling tight when he pushes too far. His breath is light, his gaze on Ilya, on the tensing of Ilya’s abs when he pushes forwards and the way that his mouth is just slightly open.

It’s a slow build, teasing like Ilya always is, building to crescendo of gasping breaths that makes Shane’s legs tense, his head tip back against the pillow, his hand find Ilya’s. He opens his legs wider, feels Ilya inside of him.

“Moya roza,” Ilya says, and presses a kiss to Shane’s lips.

And then they’re coming, together with a gasp.

Later, there’s a snuffle at the door. Shane blushes, tugging the ties from the headboard and throwing them into the nightstand, shutting it with bang. Ilya grins across at Shane and leaps off the bed, opens the door, and Anya trots in.

She’s freshly combed from where Shane had washed and brushed her yesterday, her name tag new around her neck. Ilya runs a hand over her ears, big and floppy compared to the smallness of her face. She leaps onto the bed, trotting over the mattress to sit between them, aiming a lick at Shane’s face before she settles between them.

“Anya,” Shane says, huffing out a laugh. Ilya’s hand strokes through her fur. Ilya’s hair is perfectly messy, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his chest still quickly rising and falling. Anya sighs, closing her eyes and settling further into the bed.

So Shane reaches out for his phone: “For the photo album,” he says. He focuses on the motion of Ilya’s hand through the softness of Anya’s fur. It’s a hockey player’s hand, almost undeniably so, with the broadness and the cuts from a fight and the calluses on the palm. But it’s no matter: soon he wants his parents to know all of it.

So the shutter clicks and the photo is taken. Later, he will stick it in his photo album that’s already half completed. Beneath, he will write: in love!!!!! with five exclamation marks like his mom had done in her own journals. And when he gets home, he and Yuna will sit on their couch with cakes in their hands and look through the photo album together.

“Is that your guy?” she might say, awkward at first.

“Yes,” Shane will say. And then: “Will you meet him? You’ll like him, I think. When you get to know him.”

Later, they go get an ice cream. Their Sunday tradition: Shane a vanilla cone, Ilya chocolate. New York bustles around them, cyclists whizzing past, taxis honking, people shouting. The city is in the swing of summer. Anya sniffs at the sidewalk, trotting along beside them.

They wander past a news stand: “Look,” Shane says. Amongst the magazines, a Hockey Weekly is nestled. Shane and Ilya are on the front: it’s the picture from their media shoot nearly two years ago, before the draft. Shane buys it with a smile at the news agent. She smiles back. Maybe she recognises him from the photo, maybe not. Shane doesn’t mind any more.

“You good?” Ilya asks when they have their ice cream.

“Yeah.”

They wander through Central Park with their ice creams in hand. A bird plays in a fountain; Shane watches the way that the trees sway in the breeze, how the water reflects off the water in the fountain like the lake at home.

A rose bush sits nearby, with delicate pink petals and long elegant stems. They sit down next to it, the sweet scent filling the air. Anya settles next to them with a sigh, Ilya taking out his phone and taking a photo.

“Would Yuna like this?” he asks.

Shane looks at Ilya’s phone. Anya is sleeping next to the rose bush in the photo, her eyes gently shut and her paws nestled underneath her.

“Yes,” he smiles. “Thanks. I’ll put it in the photo album and show it to mom when I get home.”

He wants to loop his arm through Ilya’s when they’re out like this. They don’t do that yet; but maybe someday soon. Scott has done it: Shane thinks that maybe they could do it too.

But until then, Shane is content to sit with Ilya on the grass and watch the world go by.

“Look,” he says, taking out the magazine and flipping to the page about them.

Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov: pioneering a charitable future in the MLH.

It talks about the Irina foundation, about their support for the pride tape initiative.

“Isn’t it obvious to them?” Ilya laughs.

“I don’t know,” Shane smiles. “Maybe they’ll realise eventually.”

He finishes his ice cream. Another bird lands in the fountain, splashing water about. Shane smiles; he turns to look at Ilya.

“Would you like to come to the cottage with me and meet my parents?”

Ilya reaches down for his cross necklace, holding it gently in his hands. He looks at the rose bush, and then back at Shane. “I would like that a lot, moya roza,” he says, and reaches across to kiss Shane’s cheek.

Shane slides an arm over Ilya’s shoulders. “Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy,” they both whisper.

The rose bush sways in the breeze next to them; the birds play in the fountain.

Chapter End Notes

The fantasy that Shane talks about is mentioned briefly at the end of chapter eight.

The context about the flowers in the last chapter and epilogue comes from another fic I wrote about Ilya's childhood which I imagine taking place in the same universe, but it's very short and different to this fic. https://archiveofourown.org/works/85106641

And moya roza means my rose in Russian, whilst Ilyushka is a teasing diminutive (if my translations are correct).

Thank you so much to everyone that has read this, left comments etc, it means so much to me. Not to be dramatic but writing this gave me a new purpose in my life and I'm so sad to see this finished! I'll probably still be editing occasionally though because I can't quite abandon this iteration of the characters yet.

Thank you so much for reading!