Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, David Hollander & Yuna Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Figure Skater!Ilya, Getting to Know Each Other, Flirting, Misunderstandings, Getting Together, Falling In Love, Dom/sub Undertones, Praise Kink, Loss of Virginity, First Time, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Face-Fucking, Rimming, Subspace, Secret Relationship, POV Shane Hollander, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Panic Attacks, Anxious Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Shane Hollander x OFC, (like a single attempt), (he's very confused), Fingers in Mouth, Supportive David Hollander and Yuna Hollander, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Pain Kink, (mild), Cock Warming, Choking Kink, Breathplay, Under-negotiated Kink, Jealous Shane Hollander, Barebacking, Freak4Freak Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-08 Completed: 2026-06-14 Words: 69,960 Chapters: 13/13

Until Then

Summary

“Do you know this name, ‘Shane Hollander’?”
The kid looked at Shane, chewing his lip and frowning a little, before turning back to Rozanov. “I think so, yes.”
“Who is he?
“Uh… a hockey player?”
“No,” Rozanov said in a harsh, cutting tone. “He is no one. Because he is on my ice. Understand?”

To help with his edge control, the Metros' coach recommends Shane take figure skating lessons with someone named Ilya Rozanov. Rozanov is rude, abrasive, and insists he will only teach Shane in a group class for kids. Shane, a rookie hell-bent on proving himself and unwilling to disappoint his coach, refuses to give up despite how much Rozanov tries to humiliate him each lesson.

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

Almost all of this fic is written already! It’s pretty self-indulgent because I wanted figure skater!Ilya and contrived a rough plot around that. Despite that, there are some heavier themes around child abuse, physical assault (prior to fic taking place), and homophobia/homophobic slurs, so please heed the tags.

Roughly follows the show timeline but some things have been modified (e.g., Hayden having kids sooner).

“Hollander!”

Shane gave his teammate, Hayden Pike, a parting nod before skating over to Coach Theriault.

“Good drop pass out there,” Theriault said. “But your edges could use some work.”

The warmth that initially filled Shane’s chest quickly fled. Shane tightened his shoulders to keep from slumping with the cold rush of disappointment.

“It’s a common problem,” Theriault went on to say, as if that was somehow a relief. Shane was not supposed to be anything common. He had been the number one draft pick for the MLH, and he had a reputation to maintain. “I want you to take some lessons. I’ve got someone in mind I’ll send you to. He’s a fucking prick, but he’ll tighten you up.”

“Sure thing, coach,” Shane said. He tried for a normal, personable smile. He was quite sure he failed by a long shot.

Heading back to the locker room, he sat next to Hayden on a bench as they both unlaced their skates.

“Hey,” he said, light and casual. “Has coach ever recommended you to someone for lessons?”

Hayden snorted, throwing on an easy grin. “Ohh, yeah. Don’t take it personally.”

“No, of course, I just, um.” Shane didn’t really know what he just. It wasn’t that he was taking it personally — he was used to coaches of all kinds tearing him a new one, ever since he was a kid. But he didn’t know if, at this level of his career, getting personally referred to lessons was some kind of outlier. Or a bad sign, maybe, like he was already failing to live up to expectations.

Hayden took in a breath and paused. Shane glanced over before looking back down at his skates. “Coach happen to mention a name?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Ilya Rozanov.”

From across the room, J.J. swore loudly, and rather inventively, in French. “Do not speak that name in here!” he yelled.

Unsure of how to react, Shane tossed Hayden a nervous glance. But then the room erupted, half the guys laughing and the other half joining J.J. in cursing. A hand suddenly thumped on Shane’s back and he coughed from the force of it. When he looked up, Hayden was standing over him.

“Good fucking luck,” he said with a grin.

As Shane approached the rink, he spotted a man in a dark Adidas tracksuit with a gorgeous mop of golden-brown curls. Well, no. It was a very average mop of curls. If one was into that. Not that Shane was.

Taking a deep breath, dropped his carry bag near the bench, popped off his guards, and slid onto the ice.

“Ilya Rozanov?” he called out as he skated over.

At first, the man did not turn around. Shane slowed his approach, wondering if he somehow had the wrong time, or, fuck, maybe the wrong arena. Then the man finally turned to face him, movements completely unhurried. Maybe the humidity control for the rink was malfunctioning, because Shane’s throat was suddenly dry. The man was young, much younger than Shane had expected, with clear blue-green eyes and a sharp jaw. But most of all, Shane’s was drawn to his plush mouth.

Could this really be the trainer Shane’s coach had recommended him to? He looked around Shane’s age.

“I’m —" Shane held out his hand, starting to introduce himself, when the man’s lip curled into something that looked like distaste.

“Mr. Hockey Man,” the man said in a thick accent. Eastern European, Shane thought. He jerked his chin over Shane’s left shoulder. “Go with other students.”

Shane glanced over to a small group of children gathered at the edge of the rink. Frowning, he asked, “Oh, are you finishing up a lesson? Should I… come back?”

The man (Rozanov, Shane was pretty sure, though he hadn’t confirmed anything) stared at him. Considering his accent, Shane tried to help by gesturing to himself then to the bench off the rink as he slowly repeated, “Should I come back?”

“You are student,” Rozanov said flatly. “They are student. Go.”

“I —” Shane gaped at him dumbly for a moment. “I’m sorry, what? I’m here for a private lesson —”

“Private?” Rozanov's lips twisted into something sardonic. “I do not give private lessons to rude hockey players.”

“Rude?” Shane said.

“You stay, you learn with little kids. Or you go.” Rozanov shrugged. “I do not care.”

Shane briefly debated calling Thierault to check in, but Rozanov clearly knew who Shane was, so this must be the right place. And Shane would sooner chew off his right hand than disappoint his coach. Feeling extraordinarily awkward, Shane moved towards the group of children. They all watched him approach, glancing at each other and whispering with their hands cupped over their mouths.

“Uh, hi,” Shane greeted with a small half-wave. He didn’t really know how to talk to kids.

The kids stared up at him then looked behind him, presumably at Rozanov. Whatever they saw seemed to give them permission to murmur a few soft ‘hi's’ and ‘hello’s.’

Shane floundered, trying to think of what else to say, when he heard something shouted. It sounded like another language. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Rozanov flick his chin and the kids were immediately in motion, spreading out into a single-file line along the edge of the rink. Slowly, feeling out of place, Shane skated to the end of the line.

“We wait for Bédard,” Rozanov said, smoothly skating to stand in front of them. “He is late.”

That seemed odd; Shane had first arrived at the arena thirty minutes early and had approached the rink at around quarter to. Frowning, he looked at the large clock on the arena wall and saw it was only six fifty-one.

A flash of movement had Shane glancing back over to see Rozanov skating towards him. With an obnoxious scrape of his blades, he stopped right in front of Shane, sending a spray of snow against Shane’s shins. “What is rule?” he asked abruptly.

Shane’s lips pursed. He’d had plenty of asshole coaches but at nineteen, it had been a long time since a coach had talked down to him like he was a simple-minded child.

“Early is on time,” the children said, in such unison it was kind of disturbing. “On time is late.”

Rozanov gave a sharp nod then turned around, skating to the other end of the line. He started giving each child very loud, very cutting feedback from the previous lesson.

Stopping in front of the third student in line, Rozanov yelled, “Juneau! Where do you think you are?”

The question made no sense to Shane but the girl, staring down shame-facedly at her skates, seemed to understand. “Mr. Rozanov, my hair tie broke —”

“Is this what I ask?” Rozanov said.

The girl shook her head. Watching as her fingers twisted nervously in her jacket pockets, Shane clenched his jaw in growing frustration. It wasn’t his place to interfere with how a coach talked to their students, but he hadn’t seen a coach interact with such young kids since he was that age himself. He remembered how hard it was at that age. Not that being berated in front of others was much easier now, but at least he was better at pushing through his anxiety.

“Who has one for her?” Another girl raised her hand and Rozanov nodded. “Go, give her.” As the girls started to both skate off, Rozanov stopped the one he had scolded with a tap on the shoulder. “Ah, Juneau. Next time, you ask before you come on ice, yes?”

“Yes, Mr. Rozanov. I’m sorry, Mr. Rozanov.”

If Rozanov murmured something else, Shane couldn’t hear it. But he saw the dismissive flick of Rozanov’s hand.

When Rozanov stopped before him, logically, there was nothing for Shane to really be nervous about — nothing to critique, not yet — but Shane still squared his shoulders in preparation. As Rozanov’s eyes trailed him up and down, Shane’s stomach clenched in response, almost involuntarily. He felt a weird itch under his skin and wondered, oddly, what Rozanov thought of what he saw.

“Do you know who this man is?” Rozanov asked, turning back to the kids. When no one spoke, Rozanov pointed to one of the boys. “Lambert. Your mom loves hockey, yes? Do you know name 'Shane Hollander'?”

The kid looked at Shane, chewing his lip and frowning a little, before turning back to Rozanov. “I think so, yes.”

“Who is he?

“Uh… a hockey player?”

“No,” Rozanov said in a harsh, cutting tone. Shane opened his mouth, about to interrupt, when Rozanov continued, “He is no one. Because he is on my ice. Understand?”

All the kids nodded their heads. Rozanov turned back to Shane, staring at him expectantly. Shane sighed, glaring down the rink before he gave a single, resigned nod.

Once all the students were on the ice, their warm-up began with a few laps stroking forwards and backwards. Shane, obviously, outpaced the children by a longshot — but he was surprised to find that when it came to the backwards stroking, the gap between him and them became smaller. Not significant by any means; probably not noticeable to anyone, really, but Shane could tell. 

Finishing up his last lap, he rested against the boards and glanced over at Rozanov. Rozanov looked him up and down, cut a glance to the kids still working on their laps, then looked back at Shane with a raised brow.

Fuck. Wasn’t just noticeable to Shane, then.

Next came crossovers. These should have been easy, but Rozanov kept yelling at Shane about his outside edge. 

“Stop, stop, just stop,” Rozanov said after a while, waving his hands and looking away, like he couldn’t stand the sight of Shane skating for another second. “You!” Rozanov pointed to the kids and said, “Cross-rolls next. Liang, shoulders down!”

Shane couldn’t believe this. He was being singled out amongst a bunch of kids. “There’s nothing wrong with my crossovers,” he said with a tone he had never before used on a coach, even when pushed to the outermost edge of his limits.

“Oh, you are coach here?” Rozanov said. “No, is me? Then you listen.”

Shane’s face burned. His palms ached from the bite of his nails as he clenched his fists until his forearms shook.

“Your outer edge is weak. You will do crossover and hold on outer edge. Go in circle. Now. Go.”

Shane pushed out, taking a few strides before crossing his right foot in front of his left leg, pressing into the outside edge on his left foot. He wasn’t as used to the sensation of the grip like this; outside edge work wasn’t widely used in hockey, and he cursed under his breath as it slowed his pace. He tried to balance himself by shifting a bit more weight to his right foot on its inner edge, which Rozanov, the fucking asshole, noticed immediately.

“No, this is bad,” Rozanov called out. “I say hold on outer edge. Why you do not listen?”

“I’m listening!” Shane’s teeth gritted as he came to a stop and started again, determined to keep more of his weight on the outer edge this time. 

It seemed inhuman, the way Rozanov could split his attention between the six children and Shane and still, almost unerringly, yell at Shane whenever he wasn’t deep enough into his outer edge.

On the forward and backward slaloms, Rozanov pushed him to lean so deep into his edges that Shane actually almost lost his balance. He heard the phrase “outer edge” yelled at him so many times, he swore Rozanov’s voice was ringing non-stop in his ears at that point. 

“Shoulders like this!” Rozanov yelled at him, demonstrating holding his arms out at either side with his shoulders straight. “Your body goes with edge but shoulders stay up!” 

Shane tried again, and apparently failed, because Rozanov yelled something in his native language and waved Shane away with a frustrated hand. To the kids, he said, “Do not tell your parents I say this.”

“Mr. Rozanov, we don’t know what you said!” one of the kids called back. She easily skated into her edges with her hips forty-five degrees to the ice and torso upright. Shane was not jealous of an eight year-old.

“You do not know Russian yet?” Rozanov asked, affecting a shocked expression.

The kids gave a round of ‘no’s.’ Rozanov turned to Shane with an expectant look which Shane, staring ahead, ignored. 

“Every hour you are on ice, I want three hours on Cyrillic!”

“Um, Mr. Rozanov?” one of the girls asked, coming to a stop. “What’s sir-sirill —”

Rozanov muttered under his breath. “What do they teach in school here, huh?” Louder, he jabbed a finger at the girl. “Who tell you to stop? Slaloms, slaloms!”

An eternity later, Rozanov brought them all to a halt with a command in Russian that Shane, once again, did not understand; he just followed suit when all the kids suddenly stopped.

“Mr. Hockey Man, you know scratch spin?”

It was entirely unreasonable for him to know what that was. If a professional figure skater — a first draft pick figure skater, no less — had joined his hockey lessons when he was eight years-old, he wouldn’t expect them to know what a hat trick was. And, okay, he wasn’t actually sure figure skating had draft picks, but whatever the equivalent was.

When Shane confirmed he did not, in fact, know scratch spins, Rozanov said, “Who will show Mr. Hockey Man scratch spin?”

Five of the six kids raised their hands. Rozanov, apparently in a one-man competition for Biggest Asshole Coach of the Year, chose the single kid who did not. 

“Safi, you remember problem last week?”

“Weak entry edge,” the girl said quietly.

Rozanov nodded. “I want to see strong entry edge.”

Shane grimaced, stomach twisting in discomfort as he watched the girl, Safi, skate out in front of them, her shoulders hunched and head bowed. It was like a two-for-one humiliation, targeting both Shane and her.

In silence, they all watched as she skated in a half-circle with her arms out. Her torso bent forward as she pushed into the entry edge, lifting her right leg in a straight line as she began to spin. As she continued to spin, her arms folded towards herself and her right leg bent and pulled in, rapidly gaining speed. Tucking her arms against her chest, she got impossibly faster. Her right foot descended back to the ice and she gradually slowed before coming to a final stop. Panting a little, she stared up at Rozanov with wide eyes and ruddy cheeks.

“Yes, better,” Rozanov said. “You listen.”

Sparse praise like that from a cold, exacting coach was enough to fuel an athlete, Shane knew well. This girl was no different, making a small squeal of excitement before skating back to the rest of the kids to receive high-fives. Shane smiled and shot her a thumbs up, feeling a mild sense of relief. Had he been given half an opportunity, Rozanov clearly would’ve ripped her to shreds.

A few minutes later, Shane groaned as he stumbled out of his first spin. “Holy shit.” He wasn’t sure how many turns he had managed, but he was light-headed enough that he had to rest his hands on his knees until the feeling passed. Glancing up, he watched as all the children spun effortlessly, some so fast they melted into dizzying blurs of motion.

The scrape of approaching skates had Shane holding back another groan. Without bothering to look up, he said, “Hockey players don’t need to spin.”

“Spin helps fast turns and pivots,” Rozanov said. “It is edge control.”

Shane no longer held back his groan. He was getting real fucking tired of hearing about edges.

“If you are sick, I give you something else.” The derision was clear in Rozanov’s voice as he added, “Something easy for little kids.”

Fuck you, Shane did not say as he straightened up and pushed forward to continue practicing spins. On his third attempt, he lost his balance and hit the ice hard. Sharp pain bolted through his elbow and hip, where he took the brunt of the impact. It was in startling contrast to hockey, where he was used to lots of padding; here, the kids had nothing but thin fabric to protect them if they went tumbling to the ice.

The lesson finished with C-cuts. “Outside edge, outside edge!” had become a mantra of Rozanov’s at that point, but at least it wasn’t directed at Shane alone.

A word was called out in Russian. Watching as the kids all skated back towards one end of the rink, Shane followed suit.

“Okay, we end here today,” Rozanov announced. “We are little late. Tell your parents they thank slow Mr. Hockey Man for this, yes?”

The kids all agreed as Shane just rolled his eyes. Rozanov went to open the door to the rink and the kids lined up to leave. To Shane’s surprise, Rozanov held out his fist to gently fistbump each kid on the way out, saying, “Good job, good job, good job,” to every kid who passed. When only Shane was left, Rozanov left his fist hovering as his lips twisted mockingly.

Shane wasn’t going to let it bother him. He skated up and bumped Rozanov’s fist, perhaps with a little more force than necessary, though it didn’t throw Rozanov off-balance in the slightest. Shane was halfway passed when Rozanov leaned in and whispered, “Good job.”

A shiver ran down Shane’s spine. Scowling, he rolled his shoulders and hurried to grab his carry bag before heading to the showers.

As soon as the guys spotted Shane walking into the bar, the entire table burst into laughter.

“Oh, my God, your face!” Hayden said.

Shane settled into a stool, taking in everyone’s expressions. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. “Is this some kind of hazing?” he asked.

It was a serious question but for some reason, it made everyone laugh even more. Then someone said, “I fucking wish!” and Shane’s shoulders slumped in relief — whatever the joke was, it didn’t seem to be at Shane’s expense. 

“Sure as fuck feels like it,” Hayden said, patting Shane on the shoulder. “But Coach insists it’ll help.”

“Well, does it?”

The table fell quiet. “Fuck if we know,” Comeau eventually said. “Longest anyone’s stuck around was Berkes for, what, two lessons?”

Berkes’ voice was strained. “Three.”

Everyone laughed again.

Frowning, Shane said, “He’s not that much of an asshole, is he?” Rozanov had sure as fuck pissed him off, but he found it hard to believe the guys would all be that off-put by Rozanov's temperament — Shane had definitely had harsher coaches. Hell, they chirped each other for fun with more heat than anything Rozanov had said today.

“It is not just that he is an asshole,” J.J. said, holding up a pint and shaking it in Shane’s direction. Shane tried not to grimace as he watched the beer slosh around, foam spilling over the rim and dripping down J.J.’s fingers. “It’s the fucking mind games.”

“Mind games?”

The table was quiet for a moment as the guys glanced at each other. Shane shifted in his seat, clenching his hands into fists under the table where no one could see. He wasn’t sure what he had said wrong.

“He didn’t stick you with a bunch of kids?” Hayden asked.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“See?” someone yelled as another person crowed, “Mind games!”

“I mean, it’s embarrassing,” Shane said. To say the least. “But if he’s as good as Coach says, isn’t that worth it?”

Apparently that was an unpopular sentiment. The guys grumbled, a few casting Shane peculiar looks, but thankfully they settled back into their own conversations.

“You got a humiliation kink or something, Hollander?” Hayden asked, nudging Shane with his elbow.

“What?” Shane said, eyes widening in shock. He wasn’t even sure what that meant. “No!”

“Relax,” Hayden said, grinning as he grabbed a large pitcher of beer and poured it into an empty glass, shoving it at Shane. “Drink up!”

Shane stared into the frothy, amber depths. He really just wanted a ginger ale.

“So, what, you think you’re gonna continue?” Hayden asked.

Sheepishly, Shane admitted, “I couldn’t even keep up with their spins.”

Hayden groaned and rolled his eyes. “The fuck do we need to spin for? We’re hockey players, not stupid little ballerinas.”

“He said it’s for edge control —”

A round of groans circled the table. J.J. yelled out, “Do not say that word in front of me!”

Lips twitching, Shane said, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s gonna haunt me in my sleep.”

“Stick with it if you can, bud,” Hayden said, slapping Shane on the back again. Shane stiffened but it still jolted him, sending too-warm beer slithering down his hand. “I’m sure it’ll help. Probably.”

Chapter End Notes

I don't know much about hockey and figure skating but I did research how figure skating lessons have helped real-life hockey players, so hopefully it’s passable!

My tumblr :)

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

If Rozanov was surprised to see Shane next time, he did not show it. On top of Shane’s other trainings, along with practice and games, he could only come in for sporadic lessons. With the intensity of Rozanov’s coaching, he assumed the kids were on the ice most days of the week, if not every day. Shane was thankful for the prolonged gap between his lessons because his ankles, of all things, had needed a good five days just to stop aching.

They were doing some basic work on forwards and backwards swizzles when Rozanov suddenly shouted at one of the kids. Shane stopped, watching as Rozanov skated towards the little girl.

“Juneau! Laces!”

All the kids had come to a halt by now. Frozen in place, it took Juneau a few seconds before she looked down at her boot where, Shane could now see, a lace had fallen out and was trailing dangerously close to her blades. She slowly bent down to fix it, visibly flinching as Rozanov continued to berate her.

“How many times I tell you?” he said. “You cannot tie laces, you cannot be on ice. Off, now! Go! Do not come back until you learn!”

Juneau’s arms wrapped around herself and her shoulders hunched as she hurried off the ice once the lace was properly tucked in once more.

Turning back to the rest of the class, Rozanov shouted, “Why you stop? Who said stop? Keep going!” 

Juneau wasn’t allowed back on the ice. When class ended she was still sitting on the bench, head hung dejectedly.

“Mr. Rozanov, please don’t tell my dad,” she said with a hitching breath.

Shane had just grabbed his bag. He paused, dropping it down on a nearby bench to fish around for his water bottle. His bag was very big, with a lot of stuff inside; it was believable that he’d have a hard time finding a measly water bottle.

“Juneau, this is very bad.”

“I know!” she cried. “But he’s going to be really, really, mad.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw Rozanov kneel down on the ground. He wiped at her cheek and brushed back a stray strand of hair that had escaped her bun. “Really, really mad?” he said.

She nodded vigorously and Rozanov stared at her for a long moment. Then, to Shane’s surprise, he held up a fist with his pinkie extended. “You make very serious promise: you always tie laces really good, okay?”

Juneau sniffled, rubbing at her face before shoving her pinkie out to loop around his. “Promise.”

At the next lesson, they were doing warm-up drills when Rozanov shouted something in Russian. By now, Shane recognised it meant line up along the boards.

“Now is spirals. I want both legs straight. You hear me?” He skated up and down the line as he spoke. “If I see knee bend, I will —” He broke off into harsh Russian. “Is so bad, I cannot say in English. You do not want this, yes?”

The kids all agreed. Rozanov looked over at Shane expectantly and he gave a small nod with a much larger eye roll.

“Mr. Hockey Man thinks he can do spiral no problem,” Rozanov said, turning back to the kids as if sharing a secret. “Who thinks this?”

One of the boys raised a hand half-heartedly.

“Oh, really? You will bet money?”

The kid shook his head. “Mr. Rozanov, I don’t have any money.”

“No?” Rozanov said. “Ah, okay. I take money from your dad, yes?” Turning back to Shane, he motioned to the rink. “Show us spiral.”

Shane sighed, fixing Rozanov with a glare. “I don’t know what a spiral is.”

Rozanov raised a brow and leaned down towards the boy to stage-whisper, “This is not good for you.” Straightening back up, he clapped his hands once. “Okay, kids, show Mr. Hockey Man spirals.”

The kids all skated towards the centre line then each lifted one leg up behind them as they continued to glide, arms spread in a wide V-shape, torsos tilting towards the ice.

One by one, Rozanov tore the kids apart. “Bédard, your back is like my grandfather! Liang, look up, up! Lambert, your knee is so low, what is this?”

“Okay,” Shane muttered quietly to himself, preparing to push off. “That looks easy.”

It was not easy.

Shane had a lot of flexibility in his hips, but he was unused to throwing off his centre of gravity in this way. Rozanov yelled at him to lift and straighten his back leg; just when Shane felt he had a grasp on it, suddenly his arms were too bent and his torso too upright. 

On the way back, he switched to balancing on his left leg, which was even worse. His body wobbled. He tried lifting his right leg higher off the ground and had to pinwheel his arms to stay upright.

After that, Shane was redirected to practice his balance by bracing himself with a hand against the board and raising one leg behind him as high and as straight as possible. “This better be worth it, Coach,” he muttered to himself.

The kids continued with their spirals. After a few minutes of monitoring them, Rozanov skated over to Shane. Shane pursed his lips, glaring straight ahead as he lifted his leg a little higher than his balance could really handle.

Suddenly a warmth settled over Shane’s lower back. The warmth turned into pressure, forcing Shane’s back down. “Back flat,” Rozanov instructed. A second point of warmth, this time on Shane’s chest, pushing up. “Chest up.”

Shane swallowed thickly. Sweat beaded at his forehead and his fingers flexed against the board, arm trembling faintly. He felt hot all over. It was hard to breathe.

The hand on his lower back lingered before finally withdrawing. Cold air flooded Shane’s skin and he let out a shaky breath.

“Okay, who was good today?” Rozanov asked at the end of class. He went up the line one by one, frowning and rubbing his chin as he made his decisions. Shane’s stomach tightened a little, imagining the kids’ crestfallen little faces when Rozanov inevitably declared one of them bad.

But it didn’t happen. He made it all the way to Shane and asked, “What do we think?”

The kids did not respond. 

Rozanov’s eyes trailed down Shane’s body and then back up, slowly. Shane, for some reason, felt a burning sensation across his cheeks and in his stomach.

“I think he was not so good,” Rozanov declared before turning around and skating back towards the kids. “Okay, you all know rules. I want to see clean lines. No cheating! Last time, you all cheat.”

“No, we didn’t!” one of the kids cried.

“Mr. Hockey Man, make sure none of these cheaters cheat, okay? Especially this one!” Rozanov wagged a finger at the kid who had spoken.

Bemused, Shane slowly nodded. He had no idea what was going on. 

Rozanov counted down from three and they all burst from the board. Shane’s eyes were immediately glued to Rozanov. He had seen Rozanov skate around the rink to follow them and demonstrate some of the moves, of course, but he hadn’t seen him really skate. He was startlingly fast, with every transfer between his feet fuelled by incredible propulsion. With his knees bent and torso leaned forward, any person would struggle to not let their gaze fall to his ass.

On his next inhale, Shane’s throat was suddenly parched. Tearing his gaze away from Rozanov, he started to cough.

At a sudden crash, Shane’s head whipped back to the centre of the rink where he saw Rozanov now on the ice, still several metres ahead of the kids. Shane was in motion, skating towards him, when he heard Rozanov yell out, “Monster! There is snow monster on the ice!” Slowing down, Shane’s jaw dropped as he watched Rozanov dramatically struggle against absolutely nothing. The kids were gaining on him now, and Shane even heard a few giggles.

“Help, help, he will eat me!” Rozanov cried out, flailing his arms towards the kids who all gave him an extra wide berth as they passed, safely far away to avoid any accidental collisions.

The kids were nearing the far end by the time Rozanov finally stood back up. As he brushed himself off, he yelled something in Russian that had all the kids skating towards the exit.

“I did not see! Monster kill me, no thanks to you brats!” Rozanov was shouting as Shane approached. “Who won?”

To Shane’s surprise, Safi, who had reached the far end before anyone else, did not immediately raise her hand. Rozanov narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, carefully inspecting all the kids. “Okay, you are all winners! Go pick snack from my bag. One each!”

All the kids cheered and started to make their way off the ice, one at a time. Shane frowned even as a confused smile pulled at his mouth.

“Bédard, there is special snack for you,” Rozanov said as the boy got to the door. “No, ah… what is this word?”

“No gluten?” the kid said, and Rozanov nodded and waved him off the ice.

As Shane approached the exit, his stomach hit something. He looked down to see Rozanov’s arm flung out before him.

“So, Mr. Hockey Man.” Rozanov’s voice was pitched low. That dryness came back to Shane’s throat, scratching at his esophagus, but he refused to cough or show any sign of weakness. “You will be good for me next time, yes?”

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered, roughly pushing Rozanov’s arm away. A sharp laugh followed him, burning in his ears as he hurried off the rink.

“Hey, Hollander,” one of the guys said as the team prepped for the night’s game. “Heard you’re still taking those ballet lessons with Rozanov?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “I’m not a quitter, unlike the rest of you bastards.” That got some laughs and a few light-hearted insults thrown back at him.

“He ever try something on you?” asked Rogers.

The few sniggers confirmed that Shane had not misunderstood the meaning. “Guys, c’mon,” Shane managed, trying to keep his voice light despite a growing tightness. “Just because he’s a figure skater doesn’t mean he’s –” 

He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. He was not sure he ever had, actually, in his life. As if just forming that word on his lips was dangerous.

“I just couldn’t do it, y’know?” Rogers continued, tone clear with disgust. “Knowing he’s looking at me like that.”

Shane busied himself with pulling on his compression shirt. He made sure it sat perfectly on his shoulders, cuffs precisely on his wrist, hem falling where it should. His chest was feeling tight; it must have shrunk in the wash or something.

“Lay off, Rogers,” Hayden cut in. “Besides, you think all gay guys are automatically into your ugly fucking mug?”

“I heard your wife only fucks you if she’s wearing a blindfold,” J.J. said.

Shane tried to focus on just breathing, in and out. Hayden’s point was – good. It was good to make. It was good for someone else to make, because Shane didn’t think he could address that – how ridiculous it was to assume, even if Rozanov was gay, he would automatically leer at any and every man he came across. It was safer for Shane to just flat-out deny anything. 

“You are not scared?” was Rozanov’s greeting at Shane's next lesson. With a lineup of away games, it had been a few weeks since he had seen Rozanov.

“Scared of what?” he asked.

“I know what you hockey players think of figure skaters,” Rozanov said with a shrug. “What you say.”

“What?”

Shane was just getting his right blade on the ice, watching a little too close as Rozanov raised a brow. His posture was lazy as he leaned against the boards. “Makes you gay.”

Shane’s left foot came down on the ice at a bad angle, or something, because suddenly he was off-balance. It was barely a stumble and he quickly recovered, but for some reason his heart was racing. 

“Fuck!” he said.

“That is bad word,” Rozanov said. He glanced over his shoulder and Shane followed his gaze, watching the kids trickling down towards the rink. “Children, what is punishment for bad word?” Rozanov called out.

The kids shouted something in what Shane could only assume was a butchered attempt at Russian.

Turning back to Shane, Rozanov smirked. “I make you skate laps, hard and fast, so you want to throw up. You have this in hockey?”

“Yeah.” Shane sighed. “We call it ‘bag skates.’”

The way Rozanov's nose furled in response drew Shane's gaze. “Bag skates,” Rozanov repeated, mouth moving slowly over the word ‘bag,’ as if he had never heard it before. “English is so —” He muttered in Russian.

“The origins of the phrase are unclear, but some people think it’s because the pucks —”

Rozanov held up a hand. “Ah, I did not ask. You stay after lesson for punishment.”

Blood coursed through Shane’s body as he pivoted, skates scraping up snow in a harsh stop at the blue line before he turned and raced back to the end of the rink. Instead of straight-up laps, Rozanov had smirked and told Shane to show him his ‘little bag skating.’

Pivoting again, he rushed to the red line this time. He could feel Rozanov’s eyes on him. It was invigorating. It pushed his legs to pump harder than ever, quads burning as he propelled himself forward.

Sweat streamed down his face as he finished up his final lap. Reaching the boards, he bent over and wiped at his eyes, panting.

“Had enough?” Rozanov asked. 

Shane forced himself upright. Abso-fucking-lutely. 

“Never.” 

The only warning was a quick grin before Rozanov twisted to face the rink and suddenly he was off, skating rapidly down to the first blue line. Shane raced after him.

Sometime later, as they both staggered off of the rink, Rozanov said, “I beat you.”

“I had already done a bag skate before you joined,” Shane pointed out. “Plus the lesson today.”

“So?” Rozanov said. “Is your job.”

He threw one leg over the bench to sit down in a straddle, the spread of his legs making the fabric of his sweats stretch obscenely against his muscular thighs. Shane's gaze was pulled towards his crotch.

Feeling lightheaded all of a sudden, Shane sat down on the bench. He sat down normally, with his legs together on one same side of the bench. He also maintained a safe distance between himself and Rozanov.

“It’s your job, too,” Shane said. A minute too late by now, and he wasn’t sure it even made sense as a comeback, but he was fucking exhausted. 

Rozanov bent over and rooted through a large black duffel bag before fishing out a water bottle. Shane sighed. His own water bottle lay in his carry bag a few feet away, empty. 

“Mm, I am coach,” Rozanov said between hearty gulps. “This job is… lazy.”

Shaking his head, Shane said, “I don’t think most people consider seven a.m. to be lazy.” And that was just when the lessons started. For this group, at least — it was possible Rozanov had even earlier ones.

Rozanov flicked a hand dismissively. “Seven is easy,” he said. “In Russia, you are on ice before five.”

Another gulp of water. Shane’s eyes fell to Rozanov’s throat, watching the motion as he swallowed, the sweat glistening on his skin. Forcing his gaze downward, Shane tried to pretend it was the glint of Rozanov’s necklace that had caught his eye. In truth, he hadn’t really paid it much attention before — he now realised it sort of looked like a cross but with some extra lines.

Rozanov held out the water bottle. Shane shook his head; it was his fault for forgetting to fill up his own bottle. But Rozanov just held the water bottle up higher, shaking it to torment Shane with the water sloshing inside.

Ducking his head, Shane reached over to grab the bottle. Rozanov leaned forward at the same time. His fingers were burning hot as they brushed over Shane’s when Shane grabbed a hold of the bottle. There was a split second where Rozanov’s grip tightened, as if he wasn’t going to relinquish the bottle — as if he had been taunting all along — before letting go. 

Shane took a small sip, just enough to soothe his dry throat. Were his eyes not already trained on Rozanov’s mouth, he might have missed Rozanov’s whisper: “More.” 

The bottle was up and tipped towards Shane’s mouth before he even consciously decided to comply. He took a longer drink this time, feeling Rozanov’s burning gaze on him the entire time.

When he handed the bottle back over, Rozanov’s fingers dragged all the way down his fingers to the back of his hand.

“This is nothing,” Rozanov said, jerking his head towards the rink. “In Russia, you skate until your feet bleed. If you go home with no blood on your feet, you bring shame to whole family. Parents does not allow you inside.”

Shane frowned. “I’m beginning to think some of the stuff you say about Russia is complete bullshit.”

Something curled at the edge of Rozanov’s mouth, just a hint, before he brought the bottle back to his lips. He shot Shane a wink.

“Next you’re gonna tell me you had to walk uphill both ways to school every day,” Shane continued. “In ten feet of snow.”

“Of course! What you do in Canada, take nice car?” Rozanov spat something in Russian. “Back home, everything is snow.” He waved his hands to encompass all their surroundings.

“Everything is snow,” Shane repeated, fighting back a smile. “Isn’t that just a stereotype?”

Rozanov’s head cocked to the side. Very slowly, he said, “Stereotype?”

“Yeah, um, an assumption you make when you don’t really know something. Like, all girls like pink, or…” Scrambling for another example, Shane thought of the team he had recently played against at his first All-Star game. “That Finnish people are all in love with their cousins.”

Rozanov stared at him with a small but unmistakable smile. “Like Canadians are boring?”

“What?” Shane must not have explained it well. “I don’t think that’s a stereotype.”

“Oh, okay. So is just you that is boring Canadian.”

Scoffing, Shane said, “You’re such an asshole.”

Rozanov’s chin dipped as he looked at Shane pointedly. “You want more bag — things?”

“Oh, come on.” Shane rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure you spend half the lessons swearing at us in Russian.”

“Yes,” Rozanov agreed easily. “Learn to swear in Russian, then is okay.”

Shane muttered an annoyed “Whatever” as he finally summoned the energy to push himself up off the bench. He had more training to get to, after all. He scooped down to grab his bag on the way, wincing slightly as his muscles protested.

“You, uh.” He turned back around to find Rozanov rubbing at his right calf with a pinched expression. Rozanov’s hand stilled. “You coming?” he asked, nodding towards the showers.

Rozanov waved him on. “I write notes now.”

“Okay, well.” Shifting his weight from foot to foot awkwardly, Shane paused. Rozanov just stared at him blankly. Shane cleared his throat and turned back around. “See ya.”

Chapter End Notes

My tumblr :)

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

The improvements in Shane’s game were more and more noticeable. While nothing monumental, Coach Theriault had complimented Shane on his quicker pivots after their latest win. Shane was even looking forward to his next lesson with Rozanov.

Which turned out to be a huge mistake because they were working on jumping.

“Okay, you all show Mr. Hockey Man what he miss when he is sleeping in bed, too lazy for lessons!”

“We’ve played almost every night,” Shane said flatly. “I just got back from an away game yesterday.”

“Away game? I did not see this.” To the kids, Rozanov said, “You see this?”

All the kids shook their heads except Lambert, who said, “My mom watched it. She said Mr. Hollander had some really good assists —”

“Mr. Hollander,” Rozanov cut in. “Who is this?”

The kid glanced over at Shane, mouth opening, before he snapped his mouth shut. “Mr. Hockey Man,” he corrected, to Shane’s great annoyance.

“Good assists? Mm, I think your mom is liar."

At Rozanov’s command, the kids all skated forward and demonstrated a small, straightforward jump.

“Okay, now is waltz jumps. I help you, one each.”

Although Rozanov said ‘one each,’ it seemed he meant ‘one at a time’ — he helped each kid two or three times before either telling them to proceed on their own or continue with small jumps.

Eventually, Rozanov was holding his hands out to Shane with an aggravating little smirk. Shane scowled as he skated forward and, with great reluctance, placed his hands in Rozanov’s. Thin gloves protected him from the direct heat of Rozanov’s hands. He could not let himself wonder what Rozanov’s skin felt like, or whether he had callouses.

Shane looked back up, readying himself. The smirk had fallen from Rozanov’s face, replaced with a detached, critical gaze.

From a T-position, Shane skated perpendicular to Ilya’s body on his left foot, jumped, and turned his body back towards Ilya. He let out a breath as he landed steadily on his right foot.

Rozanov made a disapproving noise. “Left leg is bent when you land.”

Shane muttered under his breath but accepted Rozanov’s hands once more to try again. Rozanov’s lip slightly curled. “Is very bad, but, go,” he said, cutting a hand through the air. “Practice.”

Disappointment soured in Shane’s stomach but he gritted his teeth and pushed on, using it to fuel him. He could jump well enough, by his own estimation, but he struggled with the finer details that Rozanov nitpicked. Hockey players had no need to be graceful; every move he made on the ice was tactical, not aesthetic. But arguing that point had gotten him nowhere so far, and as unorthodox as it was, Rozanov’s methods held promise.

Shane pushed himself, his left leg reaching out higher behind him as his torso leaned deeper towards the ice. “Yebat’,” he spat as he landed wobbly, having to quickly pull himself straight to keep from falling.

Rozanov turned around, blinking at him in surprise. He stared at Shane for a moment before his expression shifted into something unfamiliar — an almost hesitant but easily smile that wrinkled his eyes. Shane wished he was standing near a board, because he suddenly felt a little dizzy.

“Your pronunciation is khorosheye,” Rozanov said. “This is very annoying.”

“Does that mean shi —” Shane coughed awkwardly. “Uh. Bad?”

Rozanov shrugged and turned back to the student he was helping.

It was some time later, just as Shane was turning in a jump, when he heard a heavy thud. His body twisted towards the sound, causing him to land a bit harshly.

Juneau was on the ground, splayed out with one arm trapped under her chest. From the bend of her elbow, it looked like she had tried to catch herself on her hand.

Rozanov yelled something that had all the kids hesitantly backing away as he skated over. Shane was rushing to join when Rozanov’s head whipped up. Spotting him, Rozanov said, “Call hospital!”

Fuck.

Shane hurried off the ice, ignoring the concerned looks of the other children. After he called for paramedics, he ushered the kids off to one side of the rink and made his way back to Rozanov and Juneau. He could hear her cries as he approached. Injuries were common in these kinds of sports, but he remembered how startling it could be at a young age.

“I have to skate, please, Mr. Rozanov,” Shane heard as he got closer. He frowned, watching as Rozanov gently pulled Juneau to stand. “He’s gonna be so m-mad at me.”

Rozanov’s expression was dark. Shane steeled himself to intervene; he could not let Rozanov berate a crying, scared child. But Rozanov’s hands were surprisingly gentle as he guided Juneau off the ice, making sure to keep her right wrist close to her chest.

“Skates,” Rozanov demanded after coaxing Juneau to sit down. “Hollander, her skates!”

Shane opened his mouth, feeling an initial flush of frustration at being bossed around before seeing how tightly Juneau was clinging to Rozanov’s shirt with one hand, leaving Rozanov immobile. As he bent down to untie her skates, Shane found the laces of her left skate had fallen loose and tangled up with the blade.

“Mr. Rozanov, I broke my promise,” she said between heaving breaths. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, is okay,” Rozanov said, voice soft. “I think maybe you have very bad laces, yes? We get you new laces.”

“Do you think it’s broken?”

“Yes.”

The blunt response had Shane shooting Rozanov a glare as he tugged off Juneau’s other boot.

“I can skate!” Juneau insisted through her tears.

Rozanov shook his head, wiping at her face with both hands. “No, malyshka.”

“But —”

“If you hurt even worse, you will not skate professionally. Okay? You want long, good career, yes?”

“But —”

“I will talk to your father,” Rozanov, an edge to his voice. “I give you videos to watch and learn and when you are back, you will be even better.”

Juneau sniffled. “Will you come with me to the hospital?”

Rozanov’s mouth pursed as he stared at her.

“I can wrap up the lesson,” Shane cut in before Rozanov could refuse her. “I’ll give them something easy.”

Rozanov gave him a curt nod. “Okay.”

Back on the ice, Shane guided the kids to the other end of the arena, giving Juneau privacy for paramedics’ arrival. They seemed to enjoy the simple hockey drills he ran them through. He was pretty sure, at least.

Utterly exhausted after a one a.m. flight back to Montréal that morning, Shane was trudging down the arena halls towards the locker room before his next lesson. It was a rare instance where he was able to make it two weeks in a row, which certainly had nothing to do with Rozanov’s comments last time about him being ‘too lazy’ to show up.

Partly to keep himself awake and alert, he was mentally reviewing the long day ahead — aside from his usual training and practice, he had a press conference and a meeting about a potential sponsorship with Reebok that his mom was really on his ass about — when he heard shouting.

He paused. It really wasn’t his business and he decided to keep going but then, with a groan, he realised it was Rozanov’s voice.. What poor kid was getting yelled at before even getting on the ice?

Against his better judgment, Shane turned down the hall to follow the shouting. Maybe it was petty but when he heard another man’s voice shouting back, he felt a small thrill of satisfaction. Rozanov must have pissed off the wrong parent.

“She does not go on my ice like this!” Rozanov was yelling as Shane pushed open a swinging door and found Rozanov with some man. Off to the side stood Juneau, wearing a bright blue cast.

“I’m her father and I’m telling you she’s fine! She’s learned her lesson.”

Shane grimaced. This was not the blow-out he had hoped for. It wasn’t uncommon for a parent to insist on pushing their kid past their limit or to scream at a coach over a decision they didn’t like; Shane’s mom had certainly pushed him a lot, and was very involved in all of his coaching and training. But she had never crossed this kind of line, one that compromised his safety.

“She will hurt worse —”

“Do you know how much I pay you per lesson? You listen to me.”

“No. Nyet. You think I need money from you? Go, take her. Find coach who does not care for her safety.”

The dad stormed down the hall, calling at Juneau to follow. She hesitated, staring up at Rozanov with watery eyes before scurrying after her dad.

Shane watched as Rozanov opened his mouth then closed it. He rubbed a hand over his face, shoulders slumping, as he muttered in Russian.

“I, um. Maybe I can —”

Rozanov spun around, eyes wide for a split second before his expression flattened. He muttered darkly and pushed past Shane through the doorway. Weighing his options for a moment, Shane glanced at Rozanov then back down the hallway towards the exit where Juneau had left with her father. He took off for the exit.

He was able to catch them in the parking lot before they got to their car. “Excuse me!” he called out. 

The dad stopped and turned around, crossing his arms with a scowl. 

“Um, Mr. Juneau, you probably don’t know me, but my name’s Shane Hollander. I’m a hockey player, actually —”

“The hell do you want?”

“I play for the Montréal Metros.” His inflection was off — a little too raised on the last word, like he was asking instead of telling. He felt awkward; he had never used that before to get someone’s attention or interest. In fact, Hayden used it on Shane’s behalf more than enough on the rare occasions Shane would join the team at a bar or a club, he’d sling an arm around Shane’s shoulders and give an easy smile, wowing women with Shane’s MLH status.

“Hollander,” Juneau’s dad said. “You were a top draft pick or something, weren’t you?”

“First draft overall,” Shane said. But this — wasn’t really the time for that. “Uh, listen. Rozanov’s right.”

The dad heaved a sigh, clearly ready to protest, but Shane soldiered on.

“Whenever I got injured, my mom made sure I sat on the bench and watched every practice so I wouldn’t miss a thing. I took notes, studied, analysed everything the other kids did right and everything they did wrong. It sucked not being able to play but when I finally got back on the ice?” Shane smiled slightly. “I played harder than ever.”

The dad stared at him and for a moment, Shane thought he had succeeded. Then his lip curled as his gaze dragged over Shane in a way that was distinctly discomfiting. “I don’t need parenting advice from some fucking rookie.”

That warm feeling on the precipice of success was ripped away, leaving Shane cold with defeat. As he turned to head back inside, his limbs were slow to move, even though he was running late by now. When he finally got on the ice, Rozanov barely spared him a glance. 

“You are late. Bag skates after lesson.”

Shane’s jaw dropped. “But I was —”

Rozanov held up a hand, silencing him. “No excuse.”

Shane felt a hot flare of frustration. He was fucking pissed off. At Rozanov. At that asshole dad. At himself for not being enough. The first time he tried dropping being in the MLH to impress someone, to lend weight to his words, and it had blown up in his face.

Part way through the lesson, he saw movement by one of the benches. It was Juneau, settling down with a pen held between her teeth as she flipped through a bright blue notebook one-handed. He paused and smiled, feeling some kind of tension unknot in his stomach.

At the lesson’s end, everyone got off the ice while Shane started on bag skates. He was wrapping up his second round when Rozanov shouted, waving him over.

Shane skidded to a halt and pivoted towards the exit, already slightly out of breath. Rozanov stared at Shane with a cocked head, resting his elbows on the barrier. His gaze travelled down Shane’s body and back up, and Shane felt aflush with something entirely unrelated to the exertion of the bag skates.

“Juneau thanks you. For talking to her dad.”

“Oh.” Shane looked away, hoping his expression didn’t reflect the warm, pleased feeling in his chest. “No big deal. I’m glad I was able to help.”

Rozanov continued to stare at him, green-blue gaze unwavering. “We start private lessons, if you want.”

Shane blinked. “Wait. I thought you don’t give private lessons?”

Rozanov shrugged. “I do not give private lessons to stupid hockey players. You are not stupid. Just boring.”

Despite the insult, Shane couldn’t help but grin. “Okay,” he said. “I want. I definitely want.”

If Shane thought Rozanov was exacting before, it was nothing compared to his complete and undivided attention during private lessons. It was as heady as it was frustrating.

It was also a lot more… hands-on. 

Rozanov only ever touched him with purpose: straightening his arm or leg, pushing down his shoulders, flattening his back. But each time, his touch burned into Shane's skin like a brand.

When the first lesson ended, Shane headed to get off the ice when Rozanov said, “You think you can beat me?”

Shane turned back to see Rozanov leaning against the boards. His chin jutted towards the far end of the rink.

“Uh. We’re kind of out of time, right?”

Rozanov’s smirk was downright punchable. “You are scared?”

Shane scoffed. “I’m not scared, you asshole.”

“Is okay, you lost before,” he said with an easy shrug.

“You just want an easy win,” Shane said because, once again, he was the one who had exerted himself for an hour. But he was already skating over.

Competing with Rozanov was better, he thought, than Rozanov’s undivided attention or even the correcting touch of his hand. It was exhilarating in a way Shane was largely unused to — someone his age pushing him beyond his limits instead of Shane just trying to challenge himself. It wasn’t conceit that had Shane saying he had known, in the year before his rookie year, that he would be the first draft pick; that while the guys in the second and third places were good — amazing, even — they were not quite on his level.

Rozanov couldn’t challenge him in hockey, of course, but he was fucking fast, and that was exciting. But without the advantage of repeated quick pivots like when they had previously completed at bag skates, Shane beat Rozanov by a few seconds. It was victory enough for him and he raised a fist and whooped, turning to Rozanov with a smile. Rozanov was just as red-faced as Shane must have been, bent over a little to rest his weight on his left leg. He eyed Shane quietly for a moment before giving Shane a very slight smile despite his loss.

Like last time they had raced, they both settled on a bench afterwards, drinking water and catching their breath. And, just like last time, Shane tried not to stare at the hollow of Rozanov’s throat, his flexing arm muscles, his thick thighs. He really, really tried.

Rozanov was the first to break the silence. “You like Montréal? Is... nice?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, confused. “You don’t think so?”

Rozanov shrugged and looked away. “No, is nice.”

He thought Rozanov must have lived here for a while at least, since Shane’s other teammates had been put through the ringer with him, but maybe he had misunderstood something. “How long have you lived here?”

Rozanov hummed. “Year, maybe. But is hard. I…” He took another swig of water, wiped at his brow. “I do not know the city well.”

“So why’d you choose here, if you don’t speak French?” Shane asked.

Rozanov raised a brow. “You think I do not speak French?”

“You do?” Shane asked, surprised.

“Very good.” Then, with the most atrocious pronunciation Shane had ever heard: “Bonjour.”

Laughter burst from Shane, so loud and sudden it startled him. Rozanov stared at him for a moment before laughing as well.

“Really, though,” Shane said, still half-chuckling as he took another swig of water. “Why Montréal?”

“Montréal,” Rozanov muttered, lip curling as he tried to mimic Shane’s pronunciation, with the ‘n’ indistinguishable and the ‘t’ fully dropped. Then he said, “I take first flight out of Moscow to Canada. It brings me here.” His expression was as flat as his tone, giving nothing away. It was one of those times where Shane couldn’t tell if Rozanov was just pulling his leg. 

“What do you do?”

Rozanov looked to the side then back at Shane. “... I am coach,” he said slowly.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Obviously. I mean outside of work. Any hobbies?” Shane asked. When Rozanov repeated the word back to him, slowly, in a way that Shane had learned meant he didn’t know it, he clarified, “What do you do for fun?”

Rozanov hummed. He stretched his neck to the side until Shane heard a pop. The sound Rozanov made — a small sound of relief, not even a moan — filled Shane’s ears and shuddered down his spine. “Sometimes I go to club. I drink and fuck someone. I like fucking.” His eyes were heavy on Shane as he asked, “This is hobby? 

“Not…” Shane rubbed at the back of his neck where his skin started to heat, staring down at the bench. “Not really, no.” He heard a chuckle, which only made him flush harder. Clearing his throat, he said, “You know, there’s a lot of Anglophones that live in Montréal without speaking any French.”

“Ang —”

“Uh, English-Canadians,” Shane said. “And it’s easier nowadays, like with Google Translate, I mean —”

“Google Translate?” Rozanov repeated, leaning forward, hands on his knees, staring at Shane intently.

“You don’t know Google Translate?” Shane said, shocked. “If there’s a sign in French or something, you can just take a photo and it’ll — Oh.” He cut off, seeing Rozanov’s smirk. “Fuck you. I’m just trying to help.”

“You think I am too stupid to know very popular, ah, technology?”

“No, just…” Shane chewed his lip. He glanced at Rozanov and looked away. Sometimes he forgot what it felt like, around Rozanov, to not be constantly flustered. “It must be hard enough not speaking a lot of English. I can’t believe how much harder it is living in a French-Canadian city. And, I mean, it’s an issue,” he continued, wincing but unable to stop his babbling. This wasn’t normally a problem for him; his parents and teammates were always trying to get him to talk more. “Most Francophones — um, French-Canadians — speak English, but few English-Canadians speak French. So, yeah, I think sometimes people will get annoyed if you only speak English to them. But you shouldn’t let that stop you from, you know. Going out and doing stuff. If that’s a problem for you, I mean.”

Rozanov’s brows furrowed slightly. He stared at Shane, the cerulean of his eyes almost clear in the harsh lighting of the stadium. Shane swallowed under the intensity of his stare. He opened his mouth, about to apologise though not entirely sure why, when Rozanov spoke.

“No, this is true,” he said quietly. “It is problem for me. I…” He looked away, licked his lips, then looked back. “Thank you.”

Chapter End Notes

Now things can really start heating up! 🙏🙏

Yebat’ — fuck
Khorosheye — good
Malyshka — little one (feminine)

My tumblr :)

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

With the start of private lessons, Shane progressed much faster. It showed in his games, too; learning Mohawks allowed him to easily transition from backwards and forwards skating and all the outer edgework helped him elude defenders while keeping the puck in his control.

At an away game against Boston, he managed a hat trick, which was always invigorating. It was his last goal that clinched the win for them and he whooped as his teammates all crowded against him on the ice, cheering and jumping around him.

In the locker room, he got hearty slaps on the back and rowdy cheers. He grinned through it all, blood still pumping with exhilaration. His phone lit up with a flood of texts, mostly from his parents, which made Shane flush with pride.

After showering and dressing, Shane slipped into the hallway to escape the rowdiness of the locker room. He couldn’t avoid going out with the team, not tonight, but he needed a moment just to collect himself. He skimmed through his notifications, planning to call his mom, when his eyes caught on a simple message.

Good game.

The sound Shane made startled himself; small but ripped from deep in his throat. Those two words hit him harder than the dozen text messages from his mom. Harder than the cheers from the crowd or his teammates or even his coach. 

It was from Rozanov. Up until now, their text exchanges had been sporadic and curt: Shane’s schedule, Rozanov’s schedule, and decided dates and times that overlapped.

“Fuck,” Shane muttered, adjusting the front of his pants a little. Wide-eyed, he looked around, but the hallway was empty. “What the fuck.”

He composed several messages. 

You saw that? 

Since when do you watch my games? 

I thought you hated hockey. 

Yeah, the private lessons are really paying off.

Each one got deleted. He settled, finally, on a simple Thank you.

He was already dialing his mom when he heard a small ping. Pulling his phone away from his ear, he saw a simple winky face emoji. He didn’t have much time to consider the fluttering in his chest, though, because suddenly his mom’s voice was cheering through the phone.

Rozanov looked down at the bottle and then back to Shane, eyes flat and mouth slightly pursed. 

“What is this?” He spoke as if Shane was trying to give him a piece of garbage instead of a very nice wine. Well, it was very expensive, which Shane hoped meant it was good.

“It’s, uh, a thank you,” Shane said, shoving the bottle closer to Rozanov. “For your help. I think it really paid off last game.”

Rozanov did not reach for the bottle. Fuck, maybe he didn’t like wine? 

“I think this is why you pay me, no?” he said.

“Yeah, but… I don’t know.” Shane sighed, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket awkwardly. “My mom told me to bring it.”

Rozanov’s expression softened as his mouth gave into a small smile. When he reached out for the gift, his fingers overlapped with Shane’s even though the bottle was plenty big enough for two hands to hold it without touching. As he inspected the label, his thumb rubbed over the backs of Shane’s fingers, perhaps unconsciously. 

“This is good wine?” Rozanov asked.

“I don’t really drink,” Shane admitted sheepishly.

Rozanov snorted, finally tugging the bottle from Shane’s grasp. Shane’s fingers were slow to release. “I usually drink vodka.”

“Oh,” Shane said. The failure draped over him like a heavy blanket. “So you don’t like wine, then.”

Rozanov held up the bottle with a little smirk. “I like this wine.”

Shane watched, feeling strangely giddy, as Rozanov carefully tucked the bottle of wine out of the way of any foot traffic. When he turned back around, Shane quickly busied himself with sitting down on the bench to prep his skates.

“You looked pretty.”

Shane looked up from removing his right guard. “W-what?” he sputtered.

“When you make big score, camera was on your face. Is very pretty.”

Shane flushed, ripping off his left guard with more force than necessary. “I don’t think that’s the word you want.”

Smirking, Rozanov said, “I know what pretty means.”

Shane’s good mood was replaced with something sharp and red-hot. He gritted his teeth because, if not anger, he was afraid what he might label this feeling as. “Can we start already?”

“Your… what is this?” Rozanov’s hand settled on the back of Shane’s left upper thigh as Shane lifted his leg in the air behind him. His fingers dug in, just a little. “This muscle.”

Shane’s jaw clenched as he stared ahead, thankful Rozanov was positioned behind him and unable to see his face. “Hamstrings?” he said weakly.

“Da. Is too tight.” A single point of contact trailed up and down his thigh; it must have been Rozanov’s thumb. “You need to stretch.”

Shane tensed. He was — fuck. His cock was hardening just from that.

“Hollander?”

“Just a sec,” Shane said. “I’m just, uh. A little dizzy.”

“You need off ice?” 

Shane shook his head. “But maybe you could get me my water?”

“No water on ice, Hollander,” Rozanov said in a flat, condescending tone.

“Right,” Shane said. His voice was strangled. This was a wide, open, public space. The ice was fairly empty at this hour, with about half a dozen people currently practicing. No one was even looking their way but that did little to quell the panic building in his chest. “Um. Maybe you can just grab my water and I’ll... come out. In a minute.”

Rozanov’s huff brushed against Shane’s ear. “This is very weird request.” One of his hands settled on Shane’s hip as the other patted Shane’s thigh. “Drop leg.”

Shane’s leg dropped so fast, he smashed the front of his blade against the ice instead of sliding smoothly.

“You are dizzy?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Sort of.” He was certainly experiencing some form of blood loss, at least.

Rozanov’s other hand settled on Shane’s waist. “I help you off ice.”

“Nope!” Shane exclaimed as he carefully skirted around Rozanov, then raced off the ice and to the locker room, abandoning his initial plan altogether.

Shane was alone under a bone-chilling spray of cold water when he heard the soft padding of footsteps. He focused on trying not to visibly shiver as he rinsed the shampoo out of his hair.

Scrubbing at the right side of his scalp, he turned slightly to find a distinct head of gold curls. Rozanov was standing in the shower right next to him, calmly lathering up his body. His glorious fucking body, with broad shoulders, a trim and muscular stomach, powerful thighs and an ass that —

No. Nope. Shane quickly faced forward, trying to force himself to become absorbed in the tiled wall.

This hadn’t happened before. Rozanov was never in the showers after a lesson.

He risked another glance and found Rozanov staring at him.

“You already finish?”

Shane looked forward once more, jaw working as he tried to process Rozanov’s question. “What?” 

There was no response and he looked over again. Once Rozanov caught his eyes, he looked down at Shane’s crotch and pointedly raised his eyebrows. Shane’s stomach dropped.

Rozanov shrugged. “Too bad.”

“Fuck off,” Shane said. He ducked his head back under the spray of water, quickly rinsing off whatever suds remained before fleeing.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Shane chanted in his head as he hurried to his stall, dried off, and pulled on his clothes. Then he sat on the bench, head in his hands, despairing.

He should leave. He wanted to leave, but… Rozanov hadn’t exactly seemed put-off. “Too bad,” he had said, the words flustering Shane even now. But that didn’t — well, even if it didn’t mean what Shane thought it meant (hoped it meant), he should still stick around. Apologise. That was the right thing to do. 

Rozanov soon appeared in the same row of stalls and Shane lurched forward to grab his shoes, wincing as one of them tumbled from his grip.

“I can find another figure skating coach,” he said. That wasn’t — quite the apology he had intended, but the words “I’m sorry” were a thick lump lodged in his throat. He couldn’t force them out. That would mean — something had happened. Maybe, so long as they didn’t acknowledge it, nothing had really happened. 

Rozanov strutted down the aisle until he stood in front of Shane. “Is what you want?” he asked.

“I think we work well together,” Shane said quietly. He could barely stand to look up at Rozanov, with his wide chest, thick biceps, the cut of his hips, that fucking happy trail —

Shane’s face heated and he curled his hands into fists, trying to centre his focus on the bite of his nails against his palms.

“Yes,” Rozanov said. “Maybe even better off ice, yes?”

Shane hesitated, looking up once more but settling his gaze at the locker over Rozanov’s right shoulder, unsure if he was misunderstanding. He didn’t think he was, but he couldn’t risk it. Not with this. 

Rozanov sighed and rolled his eyes and made an unmistakable jerking-off motion with his hand. “I mean this, Hollander. Bozhe, you are so boring.”

Shane’s tongue twisted inside his mouth, unable to form words.

“If you want, you text me address,” Rozanov continued. Then he shrugged, as if all of this was entirely inconsequential to him. “If not, is fine. Does not matter; we continue lessons still.”

“Yeah,” Shane managed. “Sure.”

Later that night, in what Shane wished he could claim was a fugue state, he texted Rozanov. Just above his thumbs as he typed, their last exchange sat heavy on the phone’s screen:

Good game.

Thank you.

Shane’s thumbs flew across the keyboard as if, if only he texted fast enough, it wasn’t really happening.

1410, followed by an address.

A ping from his phone halted Shane’s restless pacing. He all but lunged for it, fingers shaky.

This is hotel?

Yes, Shane replied.

Nothing in response. After another twenty minutes of agonising, a knock came at the door. He peeked through the peephole — just to be safe — and took a deep breath before finally, casually, opening the door.

Rozanov strutted in like he was the one renting the room for the night, brushing past Shane to cast a critical gaze over the simple space. Taking in Rozanov’s jeans and casual jacket, Shane realised he had never seen Rozanov outside of his customary black Adidas tracksuit.

“You are homeless?” was the first thing Rozanov said as he turned back to Shane.

“No.” 

Rozanov gave Shane a raised brow look.

“This is wrong,” Shane said. It was far too risky to have Rozanov come to Shane’s place, and he didn’t know anything about where Rozanov lived. What if it was an apartment with lots of… people? Just milling about? Here, at a hotel, he and Rozanov could leave hours apart. It would be nearly impossible for anyone to link Shane to some random man.

Rozanov took a step forward. “Because we are both men?”

Yes. “No,” Shane said. “Because…” He floundered under Rozanov’s intense stare. “You’re my coach. Sort of.”

“And what, you are fucking your way to top of class?” Another step closer. Shane’s hands twitched at his side, longing to reach out. To touch. “Class of only one?”

Shane flushed hard. “No.”

Another step closer and Shane watched as his own hand reached out, brushing against Rozanov’s elbow. And then Rozanov’s hands were on him, wrapping just below his ribs, walking him backward until he hit the wall. Shane stared down at the floor. It felt surreal, like maybe this was all just a dream and he’d wake up soon. And then large fingers pressed into his cheek and a thumb into his chin. The heat of Rozanov’s palm radiated against his throat as Rozanov pushed his face up.

Rozanov’s mouth was impossibly warm and soft. A single kiss at first, a too-short press, and Shane immediately mourned the loss when Rozanov pulled away. But his fingers were still stroking Shane’s cheek and as Shane tipped forward, very slightly, Rozanov met him, lips moving against his, endlessly now, his hands grasping at Shane’s neck, head, chest. Shane’s own hands stayed at his side, fingers tugging at the beltloops of his pants, unsure of what to do.

Rozanov grunted slightly, into Shane’s mouth, and a sudden surge of need had him reaching up, tentatively tugging at Rozanov’s jacket. Rozanov was quick to oblige, separating from Shane just long enough to pull it off. Underneath he wore a tight black tank top and Shane barely had a moment to appreciate the display of his sculpted shoulders before Rozanov was pulling that off, too. 

Kissing Rozanov was unlike anything Shane had ever experienced. He found himself moving his mouth with more confidence, actively seeking out the wet heat teased by Rozanov’s parted lips. He thought he finally understood the appeal; it was more than just flesh awkwardly pressing against flesh. The mere thought of it coming to an end had Shane’s heart in his throat.

But soon, Rozanov pulled away once again. “Your first time with a guy?” he asked with a damnable smirk, as if he already knew the answer.

In any other moment, Shane would have been awash with relief to know he had the distinct look of someone who had clearly never done anything with a guy. But somehow, in front of Rozanov, his inexperience now felt like a shortcoming.

“I know what to do,” Shane said, scowling.

Rozanov smirked, placing one hand against the wall beside Shane’s head, caging him in. “I did not ask this.”

Instead of answering again, Shane dropped to his knees. His mouth ached as his hands trembled at Rozanov’s fly and soon he had Rozanov’s hot, hard cock in his hand. Before his mind could hesitate, he parted his lips and took Rozanov into his mouth.

Shane did not know what he was doing. Not really, at least. He understood the mechanics, theoretically. And maybe sometimes when he was younger, he had read advice articles about how to blow your man’s mind, and he might have jerked off reading them, but he tried to picture a woman giving head, not — himself. 

He always tried.

It seemed so simple to read about: suck while moving your head back and forth, use your tongue, do not use your teeth. In practice, it was proving to be more difficult, but Shane was… loving it. He loved the burning stretch of his lips, the heavy weight on his tongue, the sloppy sounds of his own mouth.

“Stop, stop,” Shane heard as he was suddenly pushed off.

He felt off-kilter as he was pulled to his feet; partly because of the difficulty breathing when Rozanov’s dick had been in his mouth, but mostly due to a sudden wave of anxiety. 

Then Rozanov was tugging Shane toward the bed. “Come, I want to see you,” he said before dropping Shane’s hand to strip off his own clothes.

Shane had started to unbutton his pants when he paused to admire Rozanov’s hard, strong body in a way he couldn't in the showers earlier. His throat was dry.

As Rozanov got on the bed and turned to face him, Shane quickly looked away and resumed undressing. Once he had his pants off, he shook them out, lined up the fly, and carefully folded the pantlegs. He glanced back at Rozanov, feeling a little unsure, and caught the tail-end of an expression Shane had never seen from him before — a wide, open smile that brightened his eyes. 

“Hurry up,” Rozanov complained. “All of it, off.”

Shane gestured at Rozanov’s right foot, still clad in a mid-calf sock. “You’re one to talk.”

Rozanov sighed, patting at the pillows to get more comfortable. “I am special. You are not.”

Shane pulled off his underwear but kept his socks on as he settled on the bed. Rozanov was lazily tugging at his hard cock, drawing Shane’s eyes immediately. He knelt between Rozanov’s legs, bending his head down —

“No, come here.” Rozanov gripped Shane’s bicep, pulling him up and into a messy kiss. “Okay,” Rozanov murmured after a minute. “Now go suck my dick.”

Shane huffed but he went anyway, pressing a tentative kiss to Rozanov’s chest along the way. As he took Rozanov back into his mouth, he couldn’t help but grab at his thick thighs. Rozanov’s hands were on him immediately, cupping the back of his head. There was a moment of hesitation — Shane had seen porn; he knew what a grip on the back of someone’s head could do in this kind of moment — but Rozanov’s touch was light. Instead of guiding him or forcing his head down, he simply followed Shane’s movements.

Each of Rozanov’s moans sent hot pulses straight to Shane’s cock. Shane sped up at Rozanov’s encouraging words and then suddenly Rozanov’s hand clamped down on the back of Shane’s neck, pulling Shane up against his chest as he wrapped a hand around himself. Shane panted, watching with rapt attention as Rozanov came all over his hand, stomach, and thighs. Rozanov pulled Shane in for another kiss, tongue first, rubbing against Shane’s tongue as if trying to taste himself in Shane’s mouth.

“Now I show you how to do this, kid?” Rozanov said cockily as he shoved Shane onto his back. He pressed kisses to Shane’s cheek, throat, chest, down his stomach. When his mouth met his target, Shane’s head fell back against the pillow.

“Holy shit.”

It was — glorious. He had felt wet heat around his cock before but never when he could look down and watch, want to watch, who it was. He reached down to grasp Rozanov’s shoulder, vacillating between pushing him away — it was too much — and pulling him closer. Rozanov reached up blindly to grab and squeeze his pec like maybe he, too, couldn’t resist touching Shane for long.

Shane could already feel his balls tightening and he warned Rozanov, but his words were garbled. He tried pushing at Rozanov’s head but Rozanov only sank deeper until Shane, helpless against agonising bliss, came down his throat.

“Holy shit,” Shane said, possibly for the fiftieth time. Rozanov smirked and slapped his stomach, causing Shane to flinch. “I — was that okay?”

“You mean because you come down my throat?” Rozanov asked as he settled on the bed beside Shane. Then, the smirk returning, “Or you mean how fast you come?”

“Shut up,” Shane said, but his body was too boneless for it to have any heat. 

Rozanov huffed and tilted Shane’s chin towards him. Remembering how Rozanov had kissed Shane after he blew him, Shane wasted no time in shoving his tongue into Rozanov’s mouth. Possibly lacking finesse, but he felt the vibrations of Rozanov’s moan against him. It wasn’t a distinct taste, maybe a little salty, but the thought of what he was tasting had him clutching at Rozanov’s shoulders.

Too soon they parted and Rozanov stood from the bed in search of his jeans, strewn randomly somewhere in the room instead of neatly folded and easy to find. Shane chewed on his thumbnail, trying not to feel the sudden cold of the bed.

To his surprise, Rozanov collapsed back onto the bed with a groan and something between his lips.

“Hey!” Shane yelped, smacking Rozanov’s hand as he lifted a lighter to the cigarette dangling from his mouth. “You can’t smoke in here!”

“Oh, you are police?”

“That’s not something the police would care about,” Shane muttered. “But it’s my security deposit, okay?”

“What, you never smoke in hotel room?”

“No?” Shane said, so surprised that it came out more like a question. “I’ve never smoked at all.”

Rozanov ripped the cigarette from his mouth and sighed, dramatically falling back against the bedding. “You are so boring.” Then he rolled onto his side, staring at Shane. After a while of this, he poked at Shane’s side. “Entertain me.”

Shane tried to think of different things he could say, but his mind kept returning to: “How many guys have you been with before?” Because with Rozanov, and that mouth, it was not a matter of if he had been with a guy before.

Muttering in Russian, Rozanov rolled onto his back. “This is boring question,” he announced.

There was a long moment of nothing, and Shane wondered if he was not going to get an answer at all. Was that a bad sign? And if he did answer, what should Shane consider bad, anyways — what number?

“Just one,” Rozanov finally said. 

Shane, who had resumed chewing at his nail, looked over in surprise. He could not see much of Rozanov’s expression; his head was tilted slightly to the right, away from Shane.

“I used to fuck son of big hockey coach.”

“A hockey player?” Was that why he hated hockey players so much?

“Ah, no,” Rozanov said. “No, he did not play.”

“Oh.” Without thinking, he asked, “Was it serious?”

Rozanov laughed, a dry sound that seemed more startled than anything. “No. He made me curious.” Looking at Shane appraisingly, he said, “And you make me curious.”

Internally, Shane preened a bit; for some reason, it felt like Rozanov’s curiosity was something hard-won. “Was this back in Russia?”

Another long silence. Finally, almost reluctantly, “Yes.” Then Rozanov quickly waved a hand. “He is in Paris now. He fucked half the city, probably.”

Shane laughed a little, not sure how else he was supposed to react. 

“I go now,” Rozanov said abruptly. The bed felt a little less cold, this time, when he got up.

Shane stared as Rozanov pulled on his underwear and jeans, only rolling his eyes when Rozanov sent him a wink.

“I think I’ll shower and check out,” Shane said.

Rozanov was at the door, straightening out his jacket, when Shane spoke. He turned back. “You know, if you do not stay night, they will think you hire prostitute.” Then he winked and slipped out the door.

“... Wait, really?”

Chapter End Notes

Bozhe — God

My tumblr

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

“Is there a big Russian community here?” Shane asked, wiping sweat off his forehead. As Rozanov had promised, their lessons were continuing as normal. Today, he had beat Rozanov doing what had quickly become a customary race at the end of their lesson. The win put Shane in a warm mood and knowing Rozanov would be more open to actual conversation now that they were off the ice, Shane thought he’d try to get to know him better.

“You think I can only be with other Russians,” Rozanov said.

“No, I just —” Rozanov looked up from slipping on his guards, letting Shane see his teasing smirk. “Fuck off. It’s just, I was thinking about how sometimes growing up, I was the only Asian kid. It’s not the same, obviously, but… it can be weird. Being surrounded by people who can’t really understand you in that way, you know?”

Rozanov’s hands stilled against his laces. He stared at Shane for a moment before saying, “What, you want me to move?”

“No,” Shane said, thrown off by this question. “Is that your plan? To go back to Russia?”

Rozanov groaned, shoulders drooping dramatically. “Why so much question about Russia?”

Shane’s face warmed. “I’m just curious,” he muttered. “Never mind.”

“No, is —” Rozanov huffed. “Is not… possible, okay?”

“Oh. Why?”

Rozanov shot him a glare, fleeting but cold enough that any further questions shrivelled in Shane’s throat. “Do not ask me this.”

Shane’s fingers twisted together as he looked away. His skin felt itchy and uncomfortable. From Rozanov’s tone, Shane could tell he had misstepped somehow. He supposed it must be hard, having to talk about a home so far away from him. Shane hadn’t even really liked going to away camps as a kid, even though his parents only ever enrolled him in ones for hockey.

“Sorry,” he said, perhaps a bit belatedly. When Rozanov didn’t respond, he made a quick goodbye and left.

Shane sat on the bench, his head hung low between his knees. His whole body ached but it was secondary to the frustrated disappointment welling in his chest. They had lost an away game against the Minnesota Nomads. 1-4.

He scrubbed a hand over his hair and took a few deep breaths before starting to untie his laces.

The locker room was usually quieter after a loss, and tonight was no exception. Even across the room, it was easy to hear when Rogers muttered, “Did you see how that cocksucker fumbled that fucking pass? Fuck’s sake, we should’ve won!”

There was a quiet snick as Shane’s arms jerked outward, pulling his laces taut. He stared down at his skates. He knew he was supposed to be undoing the laces but his arms were frozen.

“Hey, speaking of cocksuckers,” another guy said.

Shane stared at the ground. He took another breath.

Footsteps approached. Hard, thunking steps that Shane could have sworn shook the ground. A heavy hand slammed down on Shane’s shoulder, jostling him.

“How’s that asshole, Rozanov?”

There were a few laughs. Less than a chirp would usually get, maybe, but. 

A lump lodged in Shane’s throat.

“Alright, guys, that’s enough.” That was Hayden.

“What? I’m just looking out for the rookie —”

“Why don’t you focus on your weak fucking wrist shot? Cost us the fucking game!”

“Hey, fuck you, Pike!”

Shane’s knees were shaky. He pushed up from the bench and turned to his stall, stepping as close to it as possible. There was some kind of argument now, nothing too heated, but it sounded faded, as if Shane was listening from under water.

Stripping off his equipment and uniform was a much slower process than usual. It meant that by the time he finally stepped into the showers, the other guys were all done. 

Shane didn’t — look at them or anything. Obviously he’d look around enough to be aware of his surroundings, maybe glance over if someone shouted something at him in particular, but anything he saw was incidental; only vaguely perceived with glazed over indifference, same as any other guy in the showers. He was pretty sure.

It never happened in locker rooms or showers, whenever Shane had that problem — when he found, maybe, that his eyes lingered too long on another guy. And it had never even happened with a teammate or other player, period. 

But sometimes Shane felt wrong all the same; an unease would crawl under his skin and shame would burn in his throat, like he was doing something wrong just by being here. 

When he came back out of the showers, a text message from Hayden was waiting for him: That fucking prick better get traded next season.

It took a few hours before Shane managed to respond: Yeah. Totally.

Lessons always took priority whenever their schedules aligned, so Shane couldn’t really be blamed if several weeks passed where he happened to have no availability for anything extracurricular.

In addition to scheduling their lessons as usual, Rozanov would send him baiting text messages — like asking him how many times he could cum in one hour — which mostly just made Shane smile a little and roll his eyes a lot.

But Shane became increasingly flustered during their lessons, feeling over-warm under the skin any time Rozanov so much as brushed against him. It started to impact Shane’s ability to concentrate and he could never let something get in the way of his training, which was how he found himself walking to Rozanov’s place one night, hood pulled over his face and sunglasses on.

Rozanov had, finally, convinced him to forgo a hotel room. 

My neighbour is old deaf woman. Don’t worry. She will not hear you moan on my cock.

The first time Rozanov had texted him something incriminating like that, Shane had panicked and fumbled to delete it. But the thrill it gave him was undeniable, and he found he was always eager to see what else Rozanov would say.

Changing his contact name in Shane’s phone had been Rozanov’s idea. Lily, he had suggested.

And what about me? Shane had texted.

Fine. You can be Jane.

Shane stopped in front of a quaint brick bungalow and glanced around. Seeing the streets were empty, he climbed up the steps and rang the doorbell. Then knocked, when the door did not immediately open. He chewed his lip nervously, wondering if this was finally it — that awful moment he’d been waiting for, when the other shoe would drop. It was ridiculous, because Rozanov had clearly enjoyed it as much as he had, but Shane struggled to push back the niggling thoughts of what if. What if Rozanov gave him a fake address? What if Rozanov planned to use their encounters as some kind of blackmail? What if —

Then the door swung open and Rozanov lounged against the doorframe in black Adidas trackpants and a black T-shirt. When Shane took a step forward, Rozanov did not move to let him in.

“What are you doing?” Shane hissed.

Rozanov’s smile was lazy. “You are three minutes early. I am not ready.”

“You’re not going to make me stand out here like an idiot for three minutes.”

Rozanov’s smile only widened.

A flush of anger pushed Shane forward, hands pressing against Rozanov’s chest to force him inside. Rozanov resisted, first with his weight and core strength, and then with his hands grappling for Shane’s when Shane threw him off balance, as if he hadn’t expected Shane to actually challenge him. Then it turned into a pseudo-wrestle and Shane’s anger faded away, leaving only the thrill of competition.

He managed to get past the doorframe and then he was slammed back against the wall, one wrist held tight against his chest and the other pinned above his head. Rozanov slotted a thigh in between his. They were both panting lightly, sharing breaths, noses almost close enough to brush.

“I win,” Rozanov said with a cocksure grin.

“I’m pretty sure I won. I’m inside —” Glancing down at the arm against his chest, Shane checked his watch. “A whole minute early.”

“Mm, I think I will be inside tonight, actually.”

When the meaning of the words hit Shane, he flushed hard and sputtered. Rozanov just chuckled, giving Shane a once-over. He released the wrist he held against Shane’s chest in favour of tapping at Shane’s sunglasses and tugging on his hood.

“You are here to rob me?”

“I’m taking precautions.”

“I do not know this word,” Rozanov said, face inching closer to Shane’s. His eyes were fixed on Shane’s mouth and Shane, reflexively, licked his lips.

“It means —”

“Shh,” Rozanov murmured. His nose nudged against Shane’s as he plucked the sunglasses from Shane’s face. “I don’t care.”

With a flick of his wrist, he sent Shane’s sunglasses clattering to the floor behind him, and then they were kissing. Shane lost himself in it, for just a moment, before forcing himself to pull away.

“Those are Ray-Bans, you asshole,” he said. “They better not be scratched!”

Rozanov’s hand was warm as it cupped Shane’s throat and jaw, tilting his face to the side. “I am going to suck your dick so good,” he said, with careful, slow pronunciation. “You forget about sunglasses. You forget about name. You forget how to skate. Okay?” 

Rozanov did not need an answer, thankfully; his mouth was on Shane’s, messier than before, and Shane immediately moaned. He did not even have the time to feel embarrassed by his own neediness because Rozanov made an answering sound.

Rozanov’s fingers dug into Shane’s cheek and it was as if they had wrapped around his cock instead for the deep, pulsing ache that flared in response. But despite the heated frenzy of their kisses, Shane still felt — tentative, about touching back. It was safe, he decided, following what Rozanov had already modeled for him: grasping his jaw, grasping and squeezing his pecs. And fuck, that was really nice; Rozanov’s pecs were thick under his grasping fingers and heavy against his palms. He didn’t even realise he had bucked his hips until the friction of rubbing against Rozanov’s hip sent sparks straight through his dick.

Rozanov pulled away. His hot breath fanned against Shane’s cheek. “Get on your knees.”

Shane’s knees bent instantly. He had to push at Rozanov’s hips because he wasn’t exactly giving Shane enough space to actually get on his knees.

“Oh, wow,” Shane heard just before Rozanov stepped back.

When he reached for Rozanov’s waistband, his hands were slapped away. He looked up, unsure if he was doing something wrong.

“Open your mouth.”

Shane swallowed before opening his mouth. Still staring up at Rozanov, he didn’t realise what was happening until two fingers pushed past his lips and teeth.

“What’re you —” he tried to say, garbled around Rozanov’s fingers.

“Shh, quiet,” Rozanov murmured. He started petting Shane’s hair with his other hand.

Shane’s mouth ached fir Rozanov’s cock but settled for the fingers, wrapping his lips around them and starting to suck.

“Ah, no,” Rozanov said. He tugged at Shane’s hair. Lightly, but it still had his eyelids fluttering. “Just this, Hollander.”

The petting resumed. There was a simple rhythm to it, lulling Shane into quiet calmness. He was vaguely aware of his throat swallowing reflexively, every once in a while, when too much saliva pooled in his mouth.

Another tug, brighter than the last. “Stop that.”

It was difficult, for some reason, to drag his eyes up to Rozanov’s face. His eyelids had grown heavy without his awareness. He made a soft, questioning sound.

“Your spit. Do not swallow.”

Shane’s gaze fell once more. With the same rhythm petting his hair, Rozanov’s fingers rubbed at Shane’s teeth, pushed down on his tongue. His mouth slowly pooled with saliva until some spilled over his bottom lip and down his chin, startlingly cool against the heat of his skin.

With the backs of his fingers pressing into Shane’s top teeth and his thumb under Shane’s chin, Rozanov tilted Shane’s face upwards then side to side, examining his mouth with a darkened gaze. “I will fuck your mouth,” he said. “You will be quiet and do not move. Okay?”

Shane tried to say yes, but his face burned with humiliation as more saliva spilled down his chin.

Rozanov smacked his cheek, lightly but a little startling. “I say quiet, yes? Take out my dick.”

As Shane plucked at Rozanov’s trackpants, he found his fingers did not match the feverish eagerness he felt inside; they curled around the waistband slowly, as if his muscles were greatly fatigued. It took effort just to pull down, but soon enough Rozanov was withdrawing his fingers from Shane’s mouth to wrap around his cock and push into Shane’s mouth.

Shane moaned, long and low, like a man starved. Rozanov’s hips barely shifted, fucking Shane’s mouth quite shallowly, but the sounds were obscene from all the extra wetness.

One of Shane’s hands was grabbed and placed on Rozanov’s thigh. Rozanov squeezed his hand, curling his fingers into his flesh. “If you need stop.”

Shane’s fingers squeezed and he was rewarded with a quiet, “Good boy,” that had his cock twitching in his pants.

“How long can I keep you here?” Rozanov mused. His hand slipped to the back of Shane’s head, holding him still as he thrust a little harder. “I want to see you cry.”

The sound ripped from Shane’s throat was ragged. His fingers twisted in Rozanov’s trackpants, pulling him closer. Rozanov obliged. He gave one slow, tentative thrust until he hit the back of Shane’s mouth and Shane squeezed his eyes shut as his throat spasmed. His stomach was so tight and hot, he felt almost sick with arousal.

Fingers brushed along Shane’s cheek accompanied by a cooing sound. As Shane looked up, he found a vaguely Rozanov-shaped blur looming above him.

“Already?” Rozanov said. His voice sounded wondrous. “So pretty.”

Shane’s hips bucked against nothing. His fingers twisted so hard in Rozanov’s pants that his knuckles ached.

“I want to come down your throat,” Rozanov groaned. His hand slipped down Shane’s neck, stroking a moment, before ruffling through his hair once more. “Is okay? You can say.”

He nodded so rapidly that Rozanov chuckled, wiping a thumb over one of Shane’s eyes.

“Bozhe, Hollander, your mouth — so fucking wet,” Rozanov panted as his hips quickened. And then there was a burst of warmth across Shane’s tongue and he eagerly swallowed Rozanov’s come and his own saliva, moaning the whole time.

“Fuck!” Rozanov cursed when Shane, chasing the last remnants of that salty taste, pressed his tongue to his slit. “Fuck,” he said again as he gingerly pulled out. With the back of his hand, he wiped at the wetness on Shane’s chin.

Shane’s mouth ached, empty and wrong. He fell forward, pressing his face into Rozanov’s hip, hands still clinging to his trackpants. As the muscles of Rozanov’s thighs clenched in warning, Shane held fast, releasing a pathetic sound just as Rozanov tried to take a step back.

“Hollander, I will suck you.”

Shane shook his head. He just — he needed a moment to collect himself. “Sorry,” he managed to croak after several attempts at coordinating his throat and tongue and lips.

“No, no sorry,” Rozanov murmured. He resumed stroking Shane’s hair as his other hand patted Shane’s neck before slipping under his hoodie and the collar of his shirt, rubbing his back. “You did so good. Perfect. My perfect little princess.”

That word hit Shane hard. The sound he made was haggard, his mouth falling open as he panted against Rozanov’s hip. Painstakingly, he managed to untwist one hand from Rozanov’s trackpants so he could grind the heel of his palm down against his cock.

“You need to come, princess?” Rozanov asked. “I make you come now.”

With Rozanov’s hands under his armpits helping him up, Shane managed to stand on shaky legs. Rozanov hummed, giving a little smile as he wiped a hand over Shane’s mouth and cheeks. He leaned in for a kiss, briefly, before tugging Shane into the house.

The walk to Rozanov’s bedroom was a blur. Only one thing was sure: Rozanov’s hand holding his, a warm and firm point of contact. Shane was sat on the edge of the bed as Rozanov stripped him of his hoodie and shirt. When he was pushed down, it was against a duvet that was cool against the heated skin of his back. He wanted to squirm against it, generate some warmth, but his muscles were so lax it was more like twitching.

“How did I do?” Shane asked dazedly. His hands felt empty and the bed was so cold. He reached out, blindly, scrunching his fingers against empty air until something caught and held his left hand.

“Sucking my cock?” Rozanov sounded confused. Shane just hummed in agreement and Rozanov said, “Very, very good. I tell you already. Perfect.”

Shane moaned, sinking further down into the bed like it might absorb him. His hips twitched against nothing and then there was a firm touch, cupping and pushing down on his aching cock through his pants.

“Fuck, Hollander,” he heard. “Fucking wet. So fucking wet.”

“‘S that bad?” Shane asked blearily.

“Fucking hot,” Rozanov said, roughly shoving Shane’s pants and underwear down.

As cold air hit his aching cock, Shane gasped and writhed against the bed. He was pretty sure Rozanov was a few words from talking him into coming, his thighs quivering with desperate need.

“Stay, stay,” Rozanov said, and Shane didn’t really understand that because he was pretty sure he wasn’t moving, but he wasn’t confused for long because then there was a large, warm hand on his belly and wetness against the tip of his cock.

“Oh,” Shane gasped again, back arching against the sensation of Rozanov licking at his cock.

“Shh, wait,” Rozanov soothed, patting at Shane’s thigh not unlike one might pat a dog’s flank.

When his mouth finally closed around Shane’s cock, Shane made a warbled sound, mouth trembling. He released into Rozanov’s mouth instantly, muscles clenching so tight he whimpered before the tension eased all at once. 

“Up, up.”

Shane made a groggy, confused sound. He did not want to move. But hands were pushing at his shoulders until, grumbling the entire way, Shane shifted to wherever he was being forced to go. Against a pillow and a headboard, as it turned out.

“Coke?”

“Mm, I like ginger ale,” Shane said, unthinking.

“Okay.” Rozanov huffed slightly, sounding amused. “Water.”

Something cold touched Shane’s hand. Peeling his eyes open, he frowned at the glass of water Rozanov was trying to push into his palm. He didn’t remember Rozanov leaving.

The water was cold and soothing down his scratchy throat. This time, he heard when Rozanov left, returning moments later with the glass refilled. Awareness started to return to his limbs and mind but he still felt a little hazy, as if he had orgasmed halfway into a coma.

He hummed contentedly as Rozanov got on the bed with him, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched.

“Is it always like this?” Shane asked. “With — another guy?”

“Like what?”

“... Good?”

There was a pause. Shane took the time to stretch, groaning as his muscles shivered. He flexed his fingers, frowning a little at how stiff and slow they were.

“Sex?” When Shane nodded, Rozanov asked. “You only have bad sex before?”

“No, I just.” Shane’s mind was thick like honey as he waded through his own thoughts. “I don’t know. It wasn’t… great.”

In what was rapidly becoming a familiar gesture, Rozanov’s hand cupped Shane’s jaw. It held like that for a moment before slowly tilting Shane’s face towards him. Shane blinked up at him, watching as Rozanov’s eyes flickered over his expression. His brow was heavy and mouth tightly pursed. Very slowly, with more delicacy than Shane thought he could possess, he asked, “It… hurt you before? Sex?”

Shane’s eyes widened. “No, that’s not —” Any remaining fatigue vanished from his limbs and mind with the surprise of Rozanov’s question. “That’s not what I meant. I just…” He sighed, pushing up to sit higher against the headboard. “Didn’t really wanna be there.”

“What did you do? Blowjobs?”

“Yeah, and, um, handjob.”

“With girls, yes? Before, you tell me is your first time with a man.”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Girls.”

“What else?” Rozanov tilted his head up and, catching Shane’s confused frown, said, “What else you did with girls?”

“I, uh. I reciprocated, too.”

Rozanov continued to stare at him. “I do not know this word.”

“I, uh…” Shane swallowed. He felt itchy in his skin. Rozanov’s gaze was too much; he had to look away. “I gave oral back.”

Rozanov made a surprised noise. “You eat pussy?”

His knowledge of English sure is selective. Shane fidgeted before finally saying, “It… seemed like the polite thing to do.”

“Polite thing,” Rozanov repeated very slowly. “You surprise me. You are very funny.”

“It’s not funny, I —”

“But you do not like this,” Rozanov interrupted. “Sex with woman? Even blowjob?”  

“I did!” Shane said quickly. The two glasses of water sat heavy in his stomach, sloshing uncomfortably. “I-I do. But…” He chewed his lip. “Does it feel the same to you?”

Surely it couldn’t. Surely Shane couldn’t be the only person who felt this way.

“You are asking me if your mouth feels different from —”

“No,” Shane cut in quickly. “Just the feeling, overall. Do you like it as much, with women and men?”

Rozanov’s head tilted slightly. He stared at Shane, looking a bit like he was doing complex math just to decipher Shane’s simple question.

“I like fucking women and men, yes,” he said finally. “A lot. Both is very good.”

“Right,” Shane said. He cleared his throat against how weak he sounded. He wanted to pull his knees to his chest but settled for digging his fingers into the duvet and hunching his shoulders a bit. “Yeah.”

“You fuck woman you do not like?”

“I mean, they were both very… pretty. Attractive.”

“But you like them?” Rozanov shifted onto his side and placed his hand on Shane’s chest. “They make you hot?” he asked as he started to slowly drag his hand down Shane’s stomach. “They make you feel how I make you feel?”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Shane wrapped his hand around Rozanov’s forearm, holding firm, before Rozanov could reach his dick. His heart rate was picking up, beating against his ribs. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he could not handle his dick hardening under Rozanov’s touch right now. 

“Hollander, you are —” Rozanov said something in Russian. “Is okay,” he murmured. He shifted to sit up, turned toward Shane, and wrapped both hands around Shane’s biceps and firmly squeezed. “You are okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shane agreed slowly. He stared at the duvet. It was too dark to make out the colour. Words suddenly, bursting out of him, he said, “I’m normal, okay? I just wasn’t really into them. I’ll find a woman that I really like. Eventually.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Shane expected more mocking or perhaps disbelief, but Rozanov’s tone was gentle. Yet something in those words — hearing his own sentiment repeated back to him — rang hollow in his ears.

“Until then…” Rozanov shrugged. “We have fun, yes?”

Fun. Plenty of people had fun, right? Hell, Shane’s teammates were always nagging him to let loose and have some fun. This wasn’t exactly what they meant, but as long as he and Rozanov were discreet, it wouldn’t be a problem.

“Yeah. Until then,” Shane agreed. “Uh, I think I should go.”

“Okay,” Rozanov said. 

Rozanov grabbed Shane’s scattered shirt and hoodie, tossing them across the room at Shane’s face instead of handing them over like any civilised person would. It made Shane roll his eyes, easing some lingering tension in his shoulders. When they got to the front door, Rozanov retrieved the Ray-Bans from the floor and made a big show of holding them up to inspect them.

“Just hand them over already,” Shane said, a smile tugging at his lips despite how badly he wanted to be annoyed.

Rozanov hid them behind his back. “Gimme kiss.”

Shane tipped forward, eyes falling half closed as his mouth slotted against Rozanov’s. Rozanov made a soft noise and gently pushed Shane back against the wall. It felt natural, for Shane to sling his arms around Rozanov’s waist as they traded soft, lazy kisses.

“Goodnight, Hollander,” Rozanov whispered, pulling away just enough so that the words moved against Shane’s lips.

Shane felt his mouth pull into a dopey smile but he couldn’t quite help it. “Goodnight.”

Chapter End Notes

Bozhe — God

I really appreciate the support so far!! <3

My tumblr :)

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

“Shit, I’m sorry!” Shane said as he arrived, panting from the wild rush down to the rink. “There was this huge accident, and traffic was —”

Rozanov clicked his tongue and waved Shane’s explanation away. “Is fine.”

“We can cut today short,” Shane said. “I mean, obviously. For your next lesson.”

“No, is no one,” Rozanov said simply.

Shane paused in pulling off his guards. “You have no other students?” 

“Yes, but, ah, not today.”

“Oh. Did everyone cancel?” How bad was that accident?

“No.”

“Okay… then what?”

Rozanov made an impatient noise and gestured towards the ice. Shane thought he might not bother answering when he finally said, “One day a week I take off. Is today.”

Shane stopped short just as his skates hit the ice. 

For some time now, they had unofficially settled on Wednesdays for lessons, at wildly varying times depending on Shane’s availability. It was initially due to happenstance but Shane liked routine; there was something reassuring in the pattern of it, of mentally marking Wednesdays as Rozanov, even if that meant there were often multiple weeks in a row where Shane was unavailable that specific day.

“You’ve been scheduling me on your day off?” Shane asked. He grabbed at the board, feeling off-kilter.

Rozanov just shrugged. “Is only day that is good. Other days you give, I have other students.” His expression pulled into a smirk. “Better students.”

Shane felt light as he released the board and skated further onto the ice. He wondered if, in Rozanov’s mind, Wednesdays were equally marked as Shane. Smiling, he teased back, “I’m such a bad student that you need the rest of the day off to recover?”

Rozanov turned around, watching Shane as he skated backward. “Yes, this.”

“That’s strange, because I actually just got awarded MLH MVP.”

He had been so excited to tell Rozanov. Multiple times that night at the awards show, out in Las Vegas, Shane had pulled out his phone to text Rozanov the news. The only reason he had held off was trying to imagine Rozanov’s expression hearing it for the first time.

A frown was not exactly what he had pictured. 

“What?” Rozanov asked.

“MVP?” Shane repeated. “Uh, Most Valuable Player.”

With a sharp pivot, Rozanov switched to a forward skate, looping around Shane in an ever-tightening circle. He paused against Shane’s right side, tilting his head to whisper, “You are Most Valuable at sucking my cock.”

“You fucking asshole!” Shane shoved at him, scowling as Rozanov only laughed and skated away, not even knocked off-balance.

“Careful,” Rozanov said, eyes twinkling as he nodded over Shane’s shoulder to a small group of skaters on the other side of the rink.

“Let’s just get on with it,” Shane muttered glumly. It was stupid, waiting days just for Rozanov’s reaction. The only praise Shane really got from him was while sucking his dick; Rozanov was stingy when it came to anything related to skating.

“Hollander.” Rozanov stopped short and held out his hand. 

Shane stared at it then glanced over his shoulder. With Shane’s back to them, the other skaters shouldn’t be able to see anything; besides, it wasn’t very weird to grab a coach’s hand on the ice. But there was still a frisson of apprehension as he slipped his hand against Rozanov’s. Even through two layers of gloves, he could feel the heat between them.

“Is so fun when you are angry.”

“Rozanov —” Shane tried to pull away, feeling a flare of frustration, but Rozanov’s hand squeezed his.

“Hollander.” Rozanov’s chin dipped as he looked at Shane with soft eyes and a gentle smile. Shane’s knees felt weak. “Congratulations. You are best player on ice. Metros is most lucky team to have you.”

Shane was pretty sure he was holding Rozanov’s hand painfully tight but he thought if he let go, he would do something awful, like throw his arms around him or even give into a kiss. Maybe Rozanov felt the same, because his eyes fell to Shane’s mouth and Shane watched, rapt, as his tongue swiped across his bottom lip.

“Okay, Mr. MVP,” Rozanov said. His tone had hardened, breaking the moment as he suddenly dropped Shane’s hand. “Today you show me loop jump.”

The first thing Rozanov did after letting Shane inside was not shove him against the wall — something Shane had to admit he thought about, often — but instead offer him a ginger ale.

“Yes, no?” Rozanov said impatiently. He was staring at Shane with a raised brow. “Is not hard question, Hollander.”

“Uh, yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Shane loosened the laces on his shoes before slipping them off and lining them neatly by the door. Then he hesitated. The times he had been here before, he had been all but dragged to bed. It was strange like this, stepping into Rozanov’s home without being compelled by the heat of the moment.

“Hollander!” Rozanov called, startling Shane into finally taking the first step. 

“Thanks,” Shane said a moment later, standing on the outskirts of the kitchen, as Rozanov handed him an ice-cold ginger ale. “You really don’t have to stock this for me.”

“No, is nothing,” Rozanov said with an easy shrug. He walked back towards the counter, leaning against it on his elbows. With a sly expression, he said, “Maybe is because I want something.”

The words settled low in Shane’s belly, hot with promise. “What?”

“I want to fuck you.”

Shane coughed, the shock of the question sending his sip of ginger ale down the wrong tube. “What?”

Looking mildly amused, Rozanov said, very slowly, “I want your asshole.”

“Oh, my god,” Shane murmured as he held a hand to his face. “I — you can’t just —”

He heard Rozanov sigh. “You know is joke, yes?”

Shane’s stomach dropped in time with his hands. He felt like he was getting whiplash without even moving. “Wanting to fuck me?”

“Mm, no, this is very serious. I want to fuck you,” Rozanov said. He straightened to stand up, instead cocking his hip against the counter. “No, what I say about ginger ale. I am not, how you say… I did not buy this so you will say yes.”

“Bribing,” Shane said, a little faintly. “You’re not bribing me.”

“Yes, this. You can say no.” Rozanov shrugged, casual as anything. “You can think. You do not need to answer tonight.”

Shane fiddled with the tab of the pop can. His face was hot. His thighs were clenching, his groin already stirring. The problem lay with how much he wanted to say yes. Wasn’t that — wrong, somehow?

“How old are you?” he blurted out. The timing was bizarre but he’d been wondering for a while and, most importantly, he needed a distraction before he embarrassed himself. Like by begging for Rozanov to fuck him, right here in the kitchen.

Rozanov raised an eyebrow but did not comment on the abrupt topic change. “Twenty-one. Same as you.”

“Oh,” Shane said, surprised by this. He knew Rozanov was young, but had figured he was at least a little older than himself. “Wait, how do you know my age?”

Sighing heavily, Rozanov tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling. “Sometimes you are on news. Is very boring; they all say this same phrase — ‘twenty-one year-old phenom.’ I had to look this word up.”

Even though Rozanov wasn’t looking at him, Shane ducked his head to hide a pleased smile. Of course Rozanov already knew Shane was drafted into the MLH — he even watched Shane’s games, sometimes — but it felt good to have some kind of external validation reassuring Rozanov that Shane really was talented and valuable and good.

“You’ve been in Canada for about a year, right?” Shane asked. “Longer now, actually. How old were you when you moved?”

“Eighteen.”

“All by yourself? Did you even speak English?”

“You think everyone is like you,” Rozanov said with a heavy side-eye. “Only speak one language?”

Shane stared at him, confused. “I speak fluent French…”

Rozanov muttered under his breath in Russian. Whatever it was, it sounded angry. “I knew few words,” Rozanov said, despite his posturing mere seconds ago. “Hello, please, thank you, suck my dick —”

Shane sputtered. From Rozanov, he couldn’t entirely tell if that was a joke.

“Only useful phrase, you know?” Rozanov winked at him.

“Right,” Shane said, smiling despite himself. “Super useful.”

Rozanov quirked his lips, dragging a finger along the countertop. “I did not know Montréal is lot of French. But was hard, when I come, it… was difficult to move.” He laughed, a humourless sound.

“Why? Because of immigration or something?”

“Ah, no, I had injury.” Making a waffling gesture with his hand, he said, “Was kind of bad.”

“Your ankle?”

Rozanov looked over at him, expression frozen except for the way he slowly blinked. He looked surprised, Shane thought.

“You always wear a sock on your right foot, even when we, uh, you know. Have fun,” Shane explained. Under the weight of Rozanov’s stare, he plucked at his eyelashes nervously. “It looks sort of like a compression sock — my dad wears them. And I know you favour your right leg sometimes, on the ice.” 

Rozanov’s mouth had fallen open, just slightly, and it was almost all Shane could think about.

“You see too much things, Hollander,” Rozanov said. “But, yes. My ankle.”

“What happened?”

With his attention already fixated on Rozanov’s mouth, Shane saw it spasm — almost like a tremble — before Rozanov turned his head away. “I do not talk about this,” he said very firmly.

“Okay,” Shane said immediately. Understandable; as a hockey player, he couldn’t imagine sustaining an injury that still affected him more than a year later. It would be life-ruining; he’s not sure he would ever recover. “Okay, so, you arrived in Montréal at eighteen.”

There was a long moment where all Shane heard was gentle fizzing escaping from his pop can. Anxiety built in his chest; he didn’t understand what to do. Had he upset Rozanov too much? Was he supposed to leave now? He thought he had shifted the conversation away well enough but maybe it was too late to recover the mood.

When Rozanov finally spoke, his voice was thick. “Then, I get clients. This was not so hard for me, so, I stay. I was —”

“What?” Shane prompted; Rozanov had fallen silent once again.

“I was very good, in Russia. People know my name, even here. Figure skaters.”

“Really?”

Rozanov half-turned back to Shane, enough that Shane could see his sardonic smile. “Yes. Really.”

“Oh. Wow. I… I had no idea,” Shane said.

Rozanov looked more amused, now, as he faced Shane fully once again. “You think your coach send you to —” He waved his hand. “Nobody?”

“No,” Shane said. “I guess I just don’t know much about figure skating. I didn’t know you were, um. Famous?”

“You did not search my name before you start?”

“No?” Shane said, confused now. “My coach told me to see you, so I went to see you.”

The intensity of Rozanov’s focus made Shane swallow. Throat suddenly dry, he took another sip of his drink. Rozanov’s gaze dropped to his throat as he swallowed.

“You are very… poslushnyy.” 

Shane didn’t know what that word meant but something in Rozanov’s tone made him feel a little like a caged animal, or maybe a specimen under a microscope.

“You like this, yes?” Rozanov continued, pushing off from the counter and taking slow, stalking steps towards Shane — definitely feeling like a caged animal. “Being told what to do?”

“I-I… um. I don’t know. I guess?” Shane stammered. His teammates ribbed him for stuff like this — ranging from light-hearted comments about being a ‘goody two-shoes’ to chirps about him being ‘more uptight than some frigid bitch.’ His fingers itched with a sudden urge to wrap his arms around himself; he felt exposed, even though he wasn’t entirely sure why. “It’s… simple,” he continued. “I don’t always understand things the way other people seem to. It’s just easier for me, when people are direct.” 

The intensity of Rozanov’s gaze had Shane rubbing his neck as he stared at the floor. He swore he physically felt it when Rozanov finally looked away from him, like a sudden release of pressure.

“Come,” Rozanov said. “Bedroom.”

The way Shane immediately leapt into action, placing his can in the sink before promptly following Rozanov, just further proved Rozanov’s point. But Rozanov hadn’t spoken like this — being comfortable with being told what to do — was something weird, or embarrassing. Besides, what was wrong with wanting to please people? Wanting people to be pleased with him?

Inside the bedroom, they stripped each other of their clothes. Even as they fell into the bed in a tangled mess of limbs, Rozanov did not ask again about fucking him.

This time, Shane felt more sure of himself — of what was allowed and what he was allowed. He availed his hands and mouth and tongue of the bulk of Rozanov’s shoulders and the flexing muscles of his biceps; he sucked on his nipple, feeling heady with the quiet sound of his gasp. Laved at his stomach and dug his fingers into the cut of his hips.

More impatient by nature, Rozanov was soon tugging at Shane’s shoulders and knocking at his torso with a knee, trying to roll him over. Shane resisted, at first absorbed in the pleasure of licking up Rozanov’s side, and then a bit out of spite. It soon devolved into a tussle and possibly for the first time in Shane’s life, he was happy to lose when he wound up panting, on his back, hands pinned to the bed, Rozanov’s hips firmly pressing into his.

“Be good,” Rozanov said, in a low, warning tone that had Shane’s toes curling in his socks.

He was moaning before Rozanov’s mouth even landed on his throat. Rozanov relinquished his grip on one of Shane’s hands to squeeze his pec eye-wateringly tight and flicked a thumbnail over his nipple.

By the time Rozanov’s mouth finally closed around his cock, Shane was fully keening. Rozanov was still holding one of his hands down, now by his side instead of over his head. Shane risked moving his other hand but only so he could bring his fingers to his aching, empty mouth and bite down. He pushed his fingers deeper inside, imaging they were Rozanov’s, and —

“Wait, wait, wait!” Shane exclaimed, curling upwards as he pushed at Rozanov’s head. Rozanov pulled off with a loud pop and a smarmy grin. “Let’s — um. What you said before.”

Rozanov pouted his lips a little and wrapped a hand around Shane’s cock. Despite the warning in Shane’s quaking muscles, he began lazily tugging. “What?”

Red-hot as desire competed with embarrassment, Shane said, “You know what I mean.”

“Mm, no, I do not know,” Rozanov said. He looked up at Shane through his eyelashes. “Tell me.”

“Rozanov, stop being an asshole!” The admonishment was weakened by the paper-thin quality of his voice as Rozanov licked precome from the head of his cock. “Fine! Fuck. I want — I want you to fuck me, okay?”

Rozanov’s gaze darkened. His fingers sank sharply into Shane’s skin, for a brief moment, almost like an impulse he couldn’t hold back.

“On your stomach,” he said, smacking Shane’s stomach for emphasis. “I open you like this,” Rozanov continued as he sat up and reached for his nightstand to retrieved a bottle of lubricant. “But when I fuck you, I want to see your face.” 

Settling on his stomach, Shane’s shoulders tensed at how exposed he felt. The thought of anyone, of Rozanov, seeing him so intimately was almost embarrassing. But then Rozanov’s body was draping over him like a heavy, warm blanket, his mouth at Shane’s shoulder blade as his finger carefully prodded between Shane’s cheeks.

“Oh, shit,” Shane gasped out. Rozanov hadn’t even breached him yet — it was just the brush of his finger, slippery with lube, over Shane’s aching hole.

And then he was pushing in, agonisingly slow. Shane’s muscles flexed against the confusing sensation of intrusion. Rozanov kept peppering his back with kisses, murmuring for Shane to “relax” and “be easy.” 

“How… how deep?” Shane asked. He felt impossibly full already.

Rozanov’s laugh was a breathless exhale against Shane’s shoulder. “Two knuckles.” He laughed harder at Shane’s groan. “Is okay,” he reassured. “I give what you can take.”

Shane breathed through the — weirdness of it all, until he felt the knuckles of Rozanov’s other fingers against his skin. Rozanov stayed there for a moment until something in Shane’s body must have given; something Shane wasn’t even aware of, something that only Rozanov, touching him so intimately, would ever know. Whatever it was, he hummed approvingly and began to withdraw his finger.

And that’s when it really hit Shane, a sudden flare of bright-hot need. Blindly, he reached behind him until he grasped something of Rozanov — his shoulder, maybe.

“Don’t! Oh, fuck.”

“Hollander?”

Shane’s hole throbbed. The thought of losing Rozanov’s finger, of being empty, was almost unbearable. 

“Fuck, I need you.”

Rozanov’s groan rumbled against Shane’s back. He sat up and Shane lost any lingering embarrassment as his asscheeks were spread apart and lube was poured directly over his hole. A second finger nudged against his rim.

“What?” Shane said, squirming against the bed impatiently. “Aren’t you gonna fuck me?”

Quiet, then gentle laughter. “You think you can take my dick after just this?”

“I’m a star fucking athlete, Rozanov,” Shane hissed.

The laugh was louder, followed by a kiss to Shane’s lower back. “You train asshole? No? Then I show you.”

The second finger was agonising — it burned and stretched and yet, more than anything, Shane’s entire body throbbed to the beat of his arousal until all he could do was bite his knuckle and try not to beg Rozanov to hurry the fuck up.

“One more,” Rozanov murmured. When Shane made a frustrated noise, he just cooed. “You can take it.”

Shane’s next breath was shaky, his exhale stuttered. He tried to focus on relaxing his shoulders and definitely not on what was soon going to replace Rozanov’s stupid slow fingers, because otherwise he might finish before they even really started.

“Good, Hollander,” Rozanov continued. His other hand took turns squeezing harshly at Shane’s ass, thighs, hip, or giving gentle strokes. “That’s good.”

“Ohh, fuck,” Shane moaned, hips stuttering helplessly against the bed. The bedding beneath his face was wet with his drool. “Please, please.”

Rozanov finally pushed his fingers all the way inside as Shane squirmed and tried his best to contain himself; more than coming, more than Rozanov’s cock, he wanted to earn Rozanov’s praise once again.

“On your back,” Rozanov soon instructed him. In the confusing wave of emptiness mixed with exciting promise as Rozanov’s fingers withdrew, it took Shane a moment to comprehend. When he finally began to move, his knees were slippery on the sheets as he scrambled to turn over.

He stared up at the wall, trying not to hear the crinkle of the wrapper or the slippery sounds of lube as Rozanov rolled on a condom and prepared himself. He refused to blow his load; he was not going to ruin this. He was not going to disappoint Rozanov.

“You still want?” Rozanov asked, not quite pressing inside.

“I will fucking murder you,” Shane said, glaring down at Rozanov with every ounce of venom he could muster. Which was not a lot but apparently enough to convince Rozanov.

Rozanov repositioned, settling over Shane with a hand planted beside his head. Shane grabbed onto his shoulders, stomach twisting with nerves as much as arousal as he felt Rozanov’s cock press against him. Eyes dark and focused, Rozanov seemed to scrutinise every microexpression and tiny noise Shane made as he started to push inside. 

Shane felt his body stretch impossibly wide to accommodate Rozanov within him. His mouth trembled. It was odd; not quite painful but not exactly pleasurable. He wanted desperately to pull Rozanov down for a kiss. To distract himself, he bit down on his lip and dropped his hands from around Rozanov’s shoulders, trying to keep his body loose and accommodating.

“Is okay?” Rozanov asked, slightly out of breath even though he wasn’t really moving.

“Yes.”

“You tell me if —”

“Yes,” Shane snapped. “Rozanov, just keep —”

Shane’s eyes startled open at a flicking sensation against his nose. “Soplyak,” Rozanov muttered.

The sensation began to shift the more Rozanov pushed inside until Shane’s thighs were quivering and that deep, consuming ache returned, like suddenly he could not physically get enough of Rozanov inside him. 

When Rozanov gave a thrust for the first time, Shane’s fingers scrabbled for purchase against the bedding as he moaned. Rozanov was moaning too, near-breathless sounds that made Shane’s thighs tremble. He shifted to grab Shane’s pec with an unforgiving grip and started kissing Shane’s neck. Shane reached up, curling his fingers around Rozanov’s hand on his chest, anchoring him there.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Shane gasped as Rozanov began rocking into him. And, “Oh, god, Roz, fuck, yes.”

The slapping of their skin as Rozanov set a steady pace was the most erotic thing Shane had ever heard. As if the aching stretch of fullness wasn’t enough, it was another piece of evidence that Rozanov was really, truly, fucking into him.

Mouth aching, Shane grabbed Rozanov’s face in both hands and pulled him down, finally giving into the need to kiss. 

This close, every thrust was marked by a gentle tap against Shane’s chin, which he distantly registered as Rozanov’s cross. Everything felt like too much and not enough; every inch of his skin touching Rozanov was on fire, yet he needed more. He needed Rozanov’s weight pressing him down, their legs tangled together. He felt impossibly full yet he wanted more, mouth falling open in a silent plea for Rozanov’s tongue.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov moaned, pushing his face against Shane’s cheek. He sounded absolutely wrecked, and it made Shane keen. “Everything is okay?”

Unable to trust his own voice, Shane nodded rapidly and threw his arms around Rozanov’s neck, keeping him close.

Rozanov’s teeth closed on Shane’s bottom lip, sinking in until Shane whined. “On your knees,” he said.

Shane was already halfway turned over when he said, “I thought you wanted to see my face.”

“Yes,” Rozanov agreed, his hands hot and firm as he tilted Shane’s hips up and pushed down at his shoulder. “But this will feel very good.” His hand stroked up and down Shane’s side, soothing, as he pressed in again. “Is still okay?”

“Rozanov, Jesus Christ,” Shane groaned. “Yes. Yes.”

And fuck, it did feel good, especially as Rozanov’s thrusts lost their initial tentativeness and he began really pounding into Shane. Shane couldn’t imagine using his body for anything else, ever again; it felt made for Rozanov’s touch, for his cock, like Shane had only just discovered an awful, cavernous emptiness that had laid dormant within him all this time. He grasped at the bedding, trying to anchor himself as his knees slipped on the sheets. 

The first time Shane held firm and pushed back to meet Rozanov’s thrust, he heard a guttural, “Fuck,” behind him. He tried his best to keep up but soon Rozanov shifted to a sharper, harder tempo and Shane was left clutching at the pillows, arms too weak to even hold himself up.

“Da, like that, Hollander,” Rozanov said, voice floating somewhere above him. A hand came down, burning hot as it pushed between Shane’s shoulder blades, keeping his back arched and face pressed into the bed.

“Oh, oh, fuck,” Shane gasped at the change in angle. It hit somewhere deep in him that made his legs shake violently. Rozanov hit it again and light burst behind Shane’s eyelids. He was so close, his cock ached for release, and he tried to reach down, to touch himself, but instead his fingers only dug deeper into the pillows.

Rozanov hit that spot again and again and again, until Shane’s eyes watered and his groin pulled viciously tight. They both groaned as he clenched around Rozanov’s cock and suddenly he was coming, yelling out as his entire body tightened.

He managed to release one of his hands, reaching back blindly, and he whimpered as Rozanov caught his hand and squeezed. His gasps sharpened as Rozanov continued to pound into him, gentler now but each thrust a too-bright shock of sensation, wrung out and oversensitive from his orgasm.

“Hollander, fuck, fuck, I’m coming,” Rozanov moaned as he bowed forward, heavy against Shane’s back, grabbing at Shane’s shoulder with his free hand.

“Holy fuck,” Shane gasped. “Holy fuck, holy fuck,” he continued as Rozanov eased him down until they both rested on their sides.

Rozanov’s laugh was hot against the cooling sweat at the nape of his neck. “This is only English you know?”

“Shut up,” Shane said with no heat behind it.

Rozanov only hummed, stroking a hand along his side and down his thigh and kissng at his back and shoulder.

“That was…” Shane’s body clenched at the memory. He clenched a little harder, brows furrowing as he realised — “Are you still inside me?”

Rozanov groaned and gave a little thrust of his hips. “Da. Do not make me fuck you again.”

“What?” Shane said, half-laughing. “You’re inside me, you asshole.”

“Yes, so be good.” From his soft chuckle and the way he squeezed at Shane’s pec, Shane knew Rozanov had felt every bit of the shiver his words had caused. “That is not good,” he said.

Shane was still mustering up the energy — really, the courage — to ask why it would be such a bad idea to fuck again when Rozanov squeezed his thigh and began to pull out.

“Shh, shh,” he murmured, kissing the back of Shane’s neck soothingly as Shane winced. That was why, he supposed — it stung. Not awfully, but he could see how a second round might leave him a little too raw.

“The bed’s kind of dirty,” Shane said after a few minutes.

“So? Is my bed.”

“... It’s on me,” Shane pointed out. He shifted his hips a little, grimacing at the stickiness drying across his stomach.

“It is your come, Hollander, fuck,” Rozanov groaned. “Up. Up, up.”

Shane winced at the dull ache as he stood. The muscles in his left thigh tightened into the familiar warning of an oncoming cramp and he took a moment to stretch as Rozanov walked to the bathroom. He returned a moment later, tossing a towel at Shane’s head. 

Shane was left to shower alone, which he did as quickly and perfunctorily as possible. He tried not to let his eyes travel over the few products Rozanov had lining his bathtub; tried not to think too much on the drugstore-brand shampoo and bodywash, or whether he could recognise the scents from Rozanov’s hair and skin.

He hadn’t thought to bring in his clothes so he returned to the bedroom in nothing but a towel. It was absolutely ridiculous, the way his cheeks warmed and his gaze lingered at the sight of Rozanov sprawled out on the bed, completely uncaring of his nakedness.

Perhaps misinterpreting this as hesitation, Rozanov patted the open space beside him, light and casual, unbothered by whether Shane left or stayed. It should have been the last thing Shane wanted, crawling back into the dirty bed and pressing against Rozanov’s side. Yet it was exactly what he did, awkwardly stretching out a foot away from him.

“Was good?” Rozanov asked as he rolled onto his side. It was a small move that somehow bridged the gap between them, Rozanov’s stomach pressing against Shane’s side with every breath. He rested his head on his hand and stared down at Shane, eyes shifting as he took in Shane’s expression.

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Was good.”

Rozanov tipped forward, glacial slow, until his mouth aligned with Shane’s. The kiss was achingly slow, soft, and lingering. They parted with scant centimetres between them and Shane, for whatever reason, gave into an impulse to gently nudge his nose against Rozanov’s. Obligingly, Rozanov closed the distance with another whisper-soft kiss.

Chapter End Notes

Hopefully these translations are correct; I had to try a few different words:
Poslushnyy — obedient
Soplyak — brat

My tumblr :)

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

From his laptop, Shane watched in amazement at the liquid grace of Rozanov on the ice. He was more than ‘very good’ — it turns out he had won the silver medal at the 2008 Russian Junior Figure Skating Championships and the gold medal at the 2009 World Junior Figure Skating Championships.

Aside from the World Championship, most of the footage Shane was able to find, predictably, only had Russian sports commentators. They spoke in rapid Russian and it took Shane a few times, focused more on the ice than their voices, to notice that they pronounced Rozanov’s name differently than Shane was used to. It was a little detour of knowledge that he would have to look into later; it wasn’t the focus, right now. 

He continued watching. From the breathless, upwards inflection of the commentators’ words, it was easy to recognise even across the language barrier that they were as taken with Rozanov on the ice as Shane was. But there was a particular moment, in one of the videos, that carried a stretch of silence before the two commentators burst into cheers. Rozanov had made a forward-facing jump from the edge of the skate of his left foot. He catapulted himself into the air, spinning multiple times with a tight rotation before landing on his right foot facing the opposite direction.

Shane skipped back to the start of the jump and watched again. And again. On his third rewatch, he slowed the playback speed as much as possible to better dissect the movement. In the space of a single second, Rozanov had spun three and a half times at what looked like a good two feet in the air.

Shane rewatched a few more times after that — he was an avid fan of skating in all its forms, after all.

He didn’t need to know the name of the move to understand it was impressive, but he wanted to know just how impressive. He scrolled down the page to the comments, hoping there would be discussion about it. The page auto-translated as he went, revealing lots of effusive praise. A warmth expanded in Shane’s belly; a small echo of the feeling whenever he himself received praise, and he smiled, just a little. A few comments were nonsensical, perhaps mistranslated. And then —

Shane’s stomach lurched. His eyes read it over once, twice, three times, but the words did not magically change. Fingers shaking, he slammed the laptop shut, but it was seared into his mind:

Fucking faggot. A disgrace to his country. Russia does not want you back!

It was none of Shane’s business. It was really, truly, none of his business. And it’s not like he had a habit of getting involved in other people’s lives — hell, it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to remember Hayden’s kids’ names. Jade and Ruby, he reminded himself.

Rozanov shouldn’t be any different. Or, he should be, but only because Shane should care even less about his personal life. It was too messy. 

Shane had already asked Rozanov personal questions, of course, like how it was first coming to Canada and adjusting to Montréal. And perhaps he had recently started texting Rozanov about little events and things to do in Montréal. But it was mostly things Shane’s own teammates had recommended him when he had first signed on with the Metros, so it’s not like he was putting in a special effort; he was simply passing along information that had once been shared with him, like any normal person would. And he hadn’t checked off many of the activities himself – though once he had raced Hayden up the almost three hundred steps to St. Joseph’s Oratory – so the recommendations were even less personal. Rozanov never replied to those texts, anyways. Shane wasn’t sure if Rozanov had ever done a single activity he had suggested.

Which — good. Because Shane didn’t need to know and he especially didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know more about Rozanov’s personal life. 

And that’s exactly why the next time that he walked into Rozanov’s house, the first thing he said was, “That guy. Your coach’s son. You said he’s in Paris now?”

It wasn’t his fault. Not really. Rozanov had failed to kiss him immediately, to shut Shane’s mind up before it could go to weird, dangerous places.

“Yes,” Rozanov said, very slowly. “Why? You are jealous?

“Jealous?” Shane repeated, incredulous. He glanced up from unlacing his shoes and put them neatly aside. “Of what?”

Rozanov’s head tilted slightly as he adopted an amused expression. “Maybe you think he sucks cock better than you?”

“No!” Shane said, but — “Wait. Does he?”

Rozanov’s smile widened fractionally. He stepped closer and tapped Shane’s forehead. “I miss this face, since we begin private lessons.”

Shane batted his hand away. “What face?”

Rozanov’s mouth twisted and his brows scrunched up in an exaggerated frown. “Like this. When you are jealous.”

“Jealous?” Shane repeated. “When was I jealous?”

Rozanov just raised a brow.

“Wait, you mean… I wasn’t jealous of little kids, Rozanov!”

“No?”

“Fuck you!”

Rozanov stepped closer. Shane did not move until Rozanov shoved him back against the wall — and then he had to conceal a little sigh because, despite his deep annoyance, that was exactly where he had longed to be.

Leaning in, Rozanov’s breath was hot on Shane’s cheek. He brushed his nose along Shane’s jaw and ear before murmuring, “You really want to know?”

Chest tight, Shane managed to say, “Yes.”

Rozanov hummed as if in deep thought. Finally, he said, “Maybe he is better with technique, yes?”

“What!” Shane exclaimed. With a flash of annoyance, he pushed on Rozanov’s chest — hard. Annoyance burned into aggravation as Rozanov only laughed and stumbled backward. Then he was back, wrapping his hands around Shane’s wrists as Shane tried to bat him away. 

Pressing Shane’s hands into his chest, keeping him pinned, Rozanov said, “But I enjoy your mouth more.”

“Yeah, right,” Shane scoffed.

“Yes, right,” Rozanov insisted. “You are so…” His gaze dropped to Shane’s mouth and Shane tried not to shiver as he slowly licked his lips before looking back up. “You want to make me happy, so very much. You will do anything I say, I think. Is very hot.”

Shane scowled, half-heartedly trying to extricate himself from Rozanov’s grip.

“You are fast learner,” Rozanov continued. His head bobbed side to side, as if considering. “Maybe two more lessons,” he decided. “And you will beat him.”

Shane’s mouth fell open. “Lessons!?”

“Mm, yes,” Rozanov said. With a magnanimous air, he added, “And I will not even charge.”

Shane’s mouth twitched in amusement despite himself. “I’m pretty sure you always get fairly compensated,” he pointed out.

Rozanov released one of Shane’s wrists for the sole sake of flicking his nose. “There is still much for you to learn. New experiences.”

“Like what?”

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”

Every cell of Shane’s body ached with loss as Rozanov lifted his head, grin feral and lips obscenely wet. “Is new experience?” he asked.

“Fuck you,” Shane moaned. Resisting the urge to grab Rozanov’s head and physically force him back down, he dug his fingers into the backs of his thighs where he was holding his knees to his shoulders. “You know it is!”

Rozanov propped his chin on his hand, looking like he had not a care in the world for Shane’s abject suffering. “Maybe you fuck other guys,” he said before finally dipping his head back down.

“No. No, there’s no one else,” Shane said mindlessly. His hole fluttered in anticipation but he did not feel the warm, wet touch of Rozanov’s tongue. “Rozanov!” he shouted.

Shane felt more than heard Rozanov’s small chuckle before finally, blessedly, he furled his tongue against Shane’s hole once again.

Biting his lip, Shane released one of his legs to slip a hand down his abdomen. His fingers were just wrapping around his aching, leaking cock when Rozanov grabbed his wrist and pinned it to the bed.

“Rozanov, fuck,” Shane whined. He shifted his hips, desperate for Rozanov’s tongue impossibly deeper inside him. “I need more. I need you.”

Rozanov’s tongue was gone once again and a sharp curse was on Shane’s lips when he felt Rozanov’s soft mouth press against his inner thigh. Roughly, Rozanov said, “Tell me again.”

“I need you, Roz, please.”

Rozanov was on him in the blink of an eye, tongue licking into Shane’s mouth as he blindly reached out for a condom. They ended up fucking face-to-face the entire time, staring into each other’s eyes and sharing every panted breath.

Afterward, Shane showered, as had become custom. Making his way back to Rozanov’s bed, as had also become custom, he paused to dig his phone out of his jeans pocket. He was expecting to hear back from his mom about a last-minute reschedule for a commercial shoot tomorrow.

Spread out across the bed as he was, Rozanov didn’t leave much room for Shane, but Shane had learned to interpret this as Rozanov trying to be as annoying as possible rather than discouraging Shane from getting back in bed. In fact, Shane had barely settled back into bed when Rozanov captured his face for a kiss. For a long, languid moment, there was nothing but Rozanov’s mouth on his until Shane’s phone suddenly beeped.

Rozanov muttered something in Russian as he flopped down, resting his cheek on Shane’s chest.

Shane unlocked his phone to find a text from Hayden rather than his mom. Jackie’s begging to make more stupid bird food! it said. Shane hadn’t been to the Pikes’ for dinner for a while, and Hayden had taken to pestering him about it.

“Who is this?” Rozanov asked.

Shane glanced down, a bit surprised by the question. From this angle, all he could see was Rozanov’s mess of curls. “Oh, it’s just Hayden.”

As if sounding out a particularly difficult name, Rozanov slowly repeated, “Hayden.”

“Yeah, Hayden Pike. He’s on my team — he must’ve taken a lesson with you at some point.”

Rozanov hummed. Turning onto his stomach, his chin dug into Shane’s chest as he looked up. For a moment, he just stared, before his nose wriggled adorably. “You like him.”

“Yeah, of course,” Shane said slowly. “We’re friends.”

“What is his number?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Tch!” Rozanov waved a hand. “He is worst player.”

“What? How would you even know?”

Rozanov’s eyes narrowed into a flat look. “Oh, I know. He is very bad player.”

Shane spent a few seconds with his mouth fallen open, increasingly confused because Rozanov seemed to recognise Hayden’s jersey number more than his name. If his judgment wasn’t based on the lesson he had given Hayden — which was probably from a few years ago, now — that must mean Rozanov watched more of Shane’s games than he had thought. 

Shane had to push aside the giddy feeling that realisation gave him. Because even still, Hayden’s a good player; this animosity toward him made no sense. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he said.

Before Rozanov could explain, there was another beep. Shane had barely glanced down at his phone when Rozanov clambered on top of him, tightly grasping his jaw in one hand and holding him still for a searing kiss.

“No more fucking Pike,” Rozanov said as he kissed down Shane’s throat and bit his pec.

“Yeah, okay,” Shane agreed, half-breathless and dick already stirring with interest. “Fuck him.”

“Fucking cocksucker!”

Shane’s head whipped up. His heart lurched in his chest so violently, he couldn’t breathe. His muscles were locked up tight, freezing him on the ice just as they were all exiting for intermission.

Laughter hit Shane’s ears. “Ah, in your fucking dreams!” someone yelled back. Right behind him.

A hard thump on his back jerked him into motion. 

“Keep it moving, eh?”

Against all instinct, Shane turned his head towards the first voice he had heard and saw a Toronto Guardians player looking just behind Shane with a playful grin as he headed towards his team’s bench. 

Shane all but stumbled off the ice and towards the Metros’ bench. Someone sank down beside him with a grunt.

“Great goal, Holly,” said Campbell.

Shane nodded. He was pretty sure he nodded, at least. It was hard to say; the movements of his head felt slow, almost like his mind was on some kind of time delay. He stared at the ground, trying to focus on little blemishes in the cement.

Distantly, some part of his mind recalled that Campbell had been traded from Toronto this season. It was probably just familiar banter between the two.

But the panic of hearing that word aimed so close to him, thinking for a split second that it was aimed at him, festered within Shane’s chest for hours afterward.

“She’s perfect for you!” Hayden said, slightly winded as they slowed down from their morning jog. “She’s a yoga instructor. She doesn’t like to drink or party. She’s on this, like, clean diet or some shit —”

“And that makes her perfect for me?” Shane said.

“And she’s insanely hot, okay?” Hayden said, throwing his hands up as he gave Shane a quizzical look. “What more do you need, dude? Seriously!”

“Right,” Shane said, looking away. “No, of course. Um.”

“So you’ll let me set you up?”

Looking back with wide eyes, Shane said, “No, that’s not what I —”

“This is awesome! I’ll give you her number.”

Just as Shane began to fumble for a response — some excuse to get out of it — Hayden’s phone began to ring. “Shit, this is Jackie. I’ll see you later for practice, okay?”

Fuck.

Conversation was surprisingly easy. Shane usually had a difficult time with that, especially around new people, but he had asked Samantha about her job early into the dinner and it was easy to listen and nod and ask follow-up questions. She also shared some really useful tips about yoga. 

As she spoke, Shane would sometimes glance at her hair. Long, falling over her shoulders in straight lines. Brown. He tried to imagine running his fingers through it. From the glossiness, he supposed it would probably feel soft, at least. That could be nice.

Her dress was cut, showing the top of her chest. He supposed it should have been hard, to avoid looking at, but he didn’t have a problem with that. It was only polite, of course.

Her eyes were kind. She had a nice smile. She bit her lip a lot; he wondered if maybe her lips were chapped or something. It was a recurring problem for him this time of year, as winter settled into the city.

“It’s kind of loud in here,” she said, after the waiter cleared their plates. Pointing up, she gestured to the speakers above them. 

The music was obnoxious and sometimes they had to lean towards each other just to be heard. Shane’s ears had been aching ever since they first entered, but he hadn’t wanted to make a fuss; he knew stuff like that usually didn’t bother other people. 

“Do you want to go some place quieter?” Samantha asked.

That sounded good to him. The constantly changing tempos between songs was grating against his skin more and more as the night progressed. He flagged the waiter for the cheque, politely declined Samantha’s offer to pay, and also her offer to at least split the cheque, and soon they were out the door.

“I was thinking my place?” Samantha offered as they walked back to Shane’s car. “I can show you some of those moves I was telling you about.”

He had mentioned the tightness in his hamstrings that plagued him no matter how much he seemed to stretch, and she had offered to help him out. So, that made sense. Going back to her place.

“I’ll go grab some mats and slip into something a little less…” Samantha gestured at her dress. She laughed, and Shane smiled politely. “Oh, and feel free to wear whatever’s most comfortable!” she called out, already walking down the hall. “I’ve seen it all.” She laughed again.

Shane looked down at himself. He was wearing dress pants, a button-up shirt, and a blazer. He could take off the blazer, he supposed.

She soon returned wearing yoga pants and a tank top. After they rolled out the mats, she guided him through a few of the poses she had suggested at the restaurant. Then he shifted into downward dog, a pose familiar to him, so she could offer her feedback on his form. 

He was expecting verbal feedback. He jumped a little at her hands suddenly on his hip and back, trying to adjust his position. When her attempts mostly failed, one of her hands dropped to the back of his thigh.

“Huh, your hamstrings really are tight,” she noted. 

Shane flinched as she began rubbing at his muscles.

“Just relax into it,” Samantha said, voice slow and soothing. “You’re really tense.”

It wasn’t that he purposefully thought of Rozanov. It’s just that, other than physiotherapists and athletic therapists and massage therapists, only one other person had touched him like this, ever. It made sense, didn’t it, that his body could confuse slender hands for ones much larger?

The blood already pooling in his head turned into a hot flush across his cheeks. He remembered Rozanov touching him there, on the back of his thigh, for the first time during a lesson. The way his fingers had dug in a little. A promise of more, Shane hadn’t realised at the time. Much, much more; even a year later, Rozanov still managed to find new experiences to guide Shane through.

A thrill ran through him at the thought. He was struggling to follow the rhythm of the deep, intentional breaths Samantha had set for him. His mind felt stuck on the memory of Rozanov’s mouth pressed into him so intimately. Just thinking of it made his thighs clench and his groin tighten.

When Samantha pulled him to stand, and then pulled him in for a kiss, he supposed it felt — nice, to have a mouth on him in that moment. 

Possibly any mouth would have felt nice, though.

It was going really well. He was undressed. She was also undressed, which was. Good.

She had laughed and looked away when he had fumbled with putting on a condom. It had made him laugh a little, too. And he was kind of relieved she hadn’t offered to put it on him herself.

He managed a few minutes. Maybe more than a few minutes, actually; it was kind of hard to say because, other than checking in a few times at the start, he was trying not to really — take anything in. Her breathy moans were distracting. He didn’t like the pitch of them; a little too high and reedy. Her stomach was firm and muscled, which was nice, but everything else was so… plush.

From the way the guys talked in the locker room, he was pretty sure she was everything a man could want: slender with good-sized (he thought?) breasts and long hair. She didn’t seem to be wearing makeup and, while Shane didn’t really have opinions on women wearing makeup, he thought he preferred that. If only because seeing someone else in makeup tended to remind him of his own experiences being brushed and dusted and patted with makeup for photoshoots, and sometimes that made his skin itch. 

But the more he rocked into her, the sicker he felt. He put his head down, not against her neck or shoulder but into the bedding away from her face. Even there, he could smell her fragrant perfume and feel the strands of her silky hair reaching out to scratch against his skin.

She was pretty. She was pretty, had a job she was passionate about, was easy to talk to, and their conversation had been easy and relaxed back at the restaurant.

This was everything Shane had been waiting for, wasn’t it?

He couldn’t say why his stomach felt hard as a rock. He almost feared it had twisted up inside him, leaving no room for the dinner they had eaten. He wondered if he would throw it all up. 

Maybe this was all just normal nerves? Hayden talked sometimes about how nervous he had felt going on a first proper date with Jackie. Was this what people described as ‘butterflies’?

Could butterflies happen in the middle of sex?

“... Are you okay?”

“What?”

It came out choked out and he wasn’t entirely sure why. He tried to move — he had stopped, apparently, at some point — and his stomach sank as he realised he wasn’t hard anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he said, horrified. He wanted to pull out and curl in on himself, hide away from the humiliation burning bright under his skin. But that would mean giving up, and he had never quit at something in his life.

“It’s okay,” she said. Her small, soft hand stroked at his back in a way he thought he was supposed to find soothing.

He ended up pulling out. He apologised again. His hands shook so bad, he could barely rip the condom off himself. The slippery feeling of the latex under his fingers was nauseating.

“You don’t have to be sorry!” Samantha said. She ducked her head a little to catch his eye, smiling gently, like he could really believe what she was saying.

“It’s… we’re just, uh, we’re in the middle of the season, and…” And. And what? Shane didn’t even know how to finish that sentence, really.

“Is it like performance anxiety?” she asked gently.

Shane nodded, hesitant at first, then more firmly as the suggestion took hold. His mind clung to it like a lifeline. “Yeah,” he said. That had never really been a problem for him, actually, but performing on the ice was very different from this.

“Would it help if we… don’t focus on you for a while?”

Shane nodded again. That sounded good.

Then she grabbed one of his hands and placed it on her stomach, and started dragging it downward.

Okay. He had done this before. For — women. A few times. Once, at least. Definitely once. It had been a while, but. And it didn’t matter that he didn’t really enjoy it. That shouldn’t matter — a sexual partner’s pleasure was also important. It’s not like it hurt him, or anything. Even if the thought of using his fingers there sort of made him —

“Are… are you not into this?”

Samantha’s voice, a little alarmed, hit Shane’s ears. His head snapped up and from her wide eyes and gaping mouth, he thought Samantha looked sort of mortified. 

“What?”

“You’re basically grimacing,” she said. She laughed, but the sound was sharp; maybe a bit forced.

“No, I just. Um. Sorry, I-I think I got distracted.”

His hand was below her navel. He realised he was clenching his muscles so tightly, working hard to resist the very light pull of her hand guiding him further down, that his forearm trembled.

“Distracted,” she said very slowly. Her fingers peeled from his wrist. He felt overly aware of how sweaty they both were. Of the warm sweat from her hand, lingering on his skin even though she had pulled away. “In bed.” She stared at him, with that same expression, and then something in her face changed. Something awful, like realisation — 

“Oh.”

Sickeningly cold, slimy fingers clawed at Shane’s esophagus. He was definitely going to throw up.

“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Barely a whisper, strangled from his throat.

“I — Jackie mentioned you’re kind of shy?” Samantha said. “And… maybe inexperienced? Oh, my God, it’s just… we were having such a good conversation, and I thought — Oh, my God.” Shane watched, bewildered, as she buried her face into her hands. Her next words were muffled: “I totally rushed you, didn’t I?”

“No, no. It’s like I said.” The words came out stilted. He swallowed, trying to sound more natural. Reassuring. “The season, you know?”

Her hands slowly fell from her face. Now she was staring at him blankly, as if she really didn’t know. But if she was such good friends with Jackie, surely Jackie would have mentioned something? Surely Hayden also struggled, sometimes, during the on-season…

“But I really enjoyed our conversation,” he continued. He tried to think of more things to say, but he was too aware of how naked he was, and how naked she was. He wanted both of them to dress. Well, he wanted to take a long, hot, abrasive shower before sealing himself back inside layers of clothes, but he would prefer to do that back at his own apartment, so he would have to dress for now.

“Yeah, me too.” Samantha gave him a smile, but it was weak. Pulling her knees towards her chest, she wrapped her arms around herself. “Maybe we should call it a night?”

Chapter End Notes

At the beginning when Shane is watching old videos of Ilya, I was trying to describe a triple axel jump — hope that came across for anyone familiar with figure skating!

My tumblr :)

Chapter 8

Another round of glasses slammed into the table and this time, Shane couldn’t pretend his expression twisted into anything other than a grimace. As he stood from the table, he didn’t even hear a few token groans of protest — the guys were pretty used to him by now, after all. They still wheedled him into coming out to celebrate wins as they had tonight but for all Shane knew, that had more to do with superstition than actually enjoying Shane’s presence. It didn’t take much for hockey players to build up those kinds of beliefs. It could be something small like maybe Shane hadn’t come out to celebrate a win once and they’d lost the next game. Shane couldn’t really judge, anyways; he had his own rituals that he followed.

By now, he had spent an appropriate amount of time celebrating with the team, it seemed, and no one would be surprised if he headed out. But for some reason, the thought of returning home did not bring its usual cool wash of relief. It just left him feeling cold and instead of the exit, Shane found his feet carrying him towards the bar. 

He tucked into a corner, warding the bartender off from approaching him with a quick shake of his head. Hunching his shoulders, he gripped his ginger ale a little more tightly. The glass was slippery under his fingers, and maybe that sensation was why a small shiver raked down his arms. 

He liked solitude. Preferred it, really. Home was his safe space. It wasn’t until he had moved to Montréal that he realised how exhausting it had been, living in a shared space — even with his parents, who knew him better than anyone and loved him unconditionally. Being home alone, or in his own room, did not compare to an entire apartment that was his and his alone, where everything could be sorted and placed exactly as he preferred, without worrying about interruptions or noises outside his control or unfamiliar guests invading his space.

So he wasn’t sure why, staring down at the last few centimetres of his bubbling drink, the thought of his dark, quiet apartment made his stomach feel so hollow.

“Thought you ran off!”

Shane startled, turning to see Hayden approaching with cheeks flushed from alcohol and smile wide. “Uh, yeah, no.”

Hayden settled into the stool beside Shane. “So…”

So?” Shane echoed.

“I heard about, uh… your date with Samantha.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay, bud!” Hayden slapped his back. Shane’s shoulders tightened. Even after Hayden’s hand withdrew, his shoulders remained tight. “Happens to the best of us.”

Shane glanced over at Hayden then back down at his drink. There was the confirmation he had feared — that Hayden knew of his… performance issue that night. Yet under the burning humiliation, he felt a glimmer of hope. “Does it?” he asked. 

“Uh, well, it hasn’t happened to me, but…”

The glimmer disappeared. His shoulders slumped. “Oh,” was all he said.

“We’ll keep trying, right?” Hayden said, nudging Shane’s forearm with his elbow. “Maybe she just wasn’t your type.” He paused for a moment and Shane risked a glance up, taking in Hayden’s frown. “Wait, what is your type?” he asked.

“I —”

“Or did you guys just not, like, mesh, you know? I know she’s kind of obsessed with yoga.”

“I liked hearing her talk about yoga,” Shane said honestly.

“Right, yeah. She told Jackie you guys actually had a really good conversation.” The frown deepened, as if Hayden was struggling to compute something. “So it really was a problem with her looks?”

“No, she was, uh… pretty.”

“Pretty?” Hayden said. The raised pitch of his voice sounded incredulous. “Dude, she’s fucking hot. I told you! What, your type isn’t ‘hot as fuck’ or something?”

“I — fuck,” Shane muttered. He tugged at the collar of his shirt. The fabric was heavy against his tight, dry throat. “I need a drink.”

“You, a drink? During the on-season?” Hayden said. From the corner of Shane’s eye, he saw Hayden’s teasing grin fall into something more uncomfortable. “Shit, I’ve really struck a nerve, huh?”

Shane flinched at a sudden high-pitched squeak as one of his fingers slipped along the slick surface of his glass. He registered a distant throb in his knuckles from his tight grip. He released his hands from the glass and placed them on the bar instead. There was a mild relief in the cool, dry surface.

“Shane?”

What? he wanted to snap, but he found he didn't have the breath, somehow. He tried for a deep breath but it came in too ragged. Looking down, he noticed his fingers were trembling slightly against the dark wood of the bar. He moved them again, to his sides this time, out of sight altogether. One of his feet started tapping against the footring of the stool as he tried to expel some of the sudden energy thrumming through him. It was making him nervous.

“I don’t… You don’t have to do this, okay?” Shane said eventually. It came out like a plea, and he carefully continued to stare down at the bar because if he looked up, he feared Hayden would see it written plainly on his face. What ‘it’ was, he wasn’t sure, but it would be… bad. Something like There’s something wrong with me or I’m not like you.

“Do what?” Hayden’s laugh hit Shane’s ears, discordant and too loud. “Try to get you laid?”

“Just because I prefer — privacy.” His voice was too loud, now, too, each word burning his throat as they forced themselves up. “Doesn’t mean I’m some kind of-of freak.”

“What’re you talking about, man? No one said —” 

Shane shot up off the stool. Shrugging away from Hayden’s outstretched hand, he concentrated on grabbing his wallet and rifling through his bills. His fingers were fumbling and shaky as he pulled out a twenty. Maybe more than one, actually. It didn’t really matter.

“Just leave it alone, Hayd,” he said, tossing the money on the bar before turning around and finally making his way towards the exit.

Shane just didn't understand. The next time he walked into the practice rink, he saw a flash of Rozanov’s hair over the boards and his stomach immediately fluttered in a way that just felt good. It felt welcoming, and exciting, and he had to purse his lips against a sudden urge to smile for no fucking reason. But why did it have to be so easy with Rozanov and so difficult with a woman? Any woman. All women. 

It was a problem that distracted him throughout the lesson, until Rozanov eventually snapped at him.

“Hollander, what is this? I have seen one-leg orphans do better power pulls than you.”

“No, you haven’t,” Shane retorted lamely. Then frowning, he said, “... And why’d they have to be orphans?”

Rozanov’s expression was flat. “Your head is not on ice. Why waste my time like this?”

“I’ve just got a lot —”

Holding up a hand, Rozanov said, “I did not ask. Go, take break.”

A few minutes later, sitting on the bench, a familiar presence fell over Shane. He glanced up, bracing himself for a scolding about taking too long, probably, even though Rozanov was the one who had mandated a break, when Rozanov said, bluntly, “You need to fuck? It has been a while, yes?”

“Quiet!” Panicked, Shane looked around. There was no one anywhere nearby, but he still pitched his voice low as he said, “I’m not…” Then he swallowed, unable to finish the thought.

“You are not?” Rozanov repeated, wearing an infuriating little smirk now. He reached down and patted Shane’s cheek twice. “Be good for lesson, okay?”

“Hollander, what is wrong?” Rozanov asked later that evening.

Shane had tried to convince himself it wasn’t just an inevitability that he would end up here tonight, at Rozanov’s place, yet mere seconds after receiving Rozanov’s first text to come over, he had been already tugging on a jacket.

Now, Rozanov sat on the edge of his bed with Shane between his legs. They were kissing and maybe it was a little odd, the way Shane remained standing instead of sinking into his lap or clambering onto the bed, but that didn’t mean something was wrong.

Rozanov’s eyes roamed over his face before flicking down and that brief look – assessing, too-seeing – was enough to have Shane burn bright with a burst of anxiousness. Then Rozanov said, “You are not enjoying this?” 

Shane flinched back at the sudden, intrusive memory of Samantha. Her body beneath him. Her hand guiding his. That horrible, nauseating moment of realisation that he could not just grit his teeth and push through. The look on her face as he fumbled to explain. The alarm in her voice. Are you not into this?

“No, it’s good,” Shane said. His hands, once resting easily on Rozanov’s shoulders, now twisted into Rozanov’s shirt. He ducked down to recapture Rozanov’s mouth, chest tightening as Rozanov only pulled away.

“I like it,” he insisted. His voice sounded strange to his own ears; farther away than it should have.

“Hollander…”

Rozanov’s eyes kept shifting, seeing things in Shane’s expression that Shane himself wasn’t even aware of. It made him want to curl up and hide.

Heavy and firm, Rozanov’s hand settled on the back of Shane’s neck and squeezed. The gentleness of his touch was in stark contrast to the stiffness of Shane’s muscles. Trying to relax into it, he let out a slow exhale and noticed an absent burning in his chest, as if he had been holding his breath. Some tension eased from his muscles, allowing his shoulders to slump a little.

It was unreasonable, how easily Rozanov could settle him. Shane had never had something like this. His parents had been dealing with his anxiety for as long as he could remember and he had always thought they did a good job with it, giving him space and not touching him; letting him breathe through it and talk only when he was ready. 

But the steady, warm pressure of Rozanov’s hand had a strange way of grounding him and easing his fears. Not entirely, but enough, and certainly much faster than when Shane was left alone to weather the dual storms of his panicked mind and body until they faded into something more acceptable.

“I don’t know,” Shane said.

He wasn’t sure where it came from. He didn’t even know what it meant but Rozanov was staring up at him, lips slightly parted as he focused what felt like the entirety of his being solely on Shane. 

“I don’t know,” Shane said again. The words were tight. “I-I don’t know sometimes.”

The hand on his neck squeezed again. Rozanov nodded, very slightly. “Okay,” he said.

Shane knew Rozanov couldn’t understand the convolutedness of his mind, with its logical lines that seemed too rigid to everyone else and the cavernous gap between his thoughts and his ability to put those thoughts into words. Shane himself didn’t understand his own mind a lot of the time, after all.

But Rozanov was stroking Shane’s hair as his other hand grasped Shane’s chin, holding him still just as Shane, seeking some reprieve, tried to look down. Rozanov stared unwaveringly up at Shane, eyelids soft and eyes clear blue in the ambient light. He shifted forward and tilted his chin up, bringing his gaze more in line with Shane’s.

“Me, too,” he said, very softly, like a whisper even Shane wasn’t supposed to hear. His hand kept stroking Shane’s hair. “Me, too.”

Just as suddenly as they had fallen into this moment, Rozanov pulled away and clapped his hands, startling Shane. “I’m hungry,” he announced.

Shane blinked, trying to reorient himself. His hands were still clenched in Rozanov’s shirt; it was possibly the only thing anchoring him to reality in this moment. “What?”

“I am hungry,” Rozanov said again, slower now. “You are hungry?
“No, not really…”

“Maybe we eat.” With a shrug, Rozanov added, “And then we fuck.”

Shane took a moment to process this. “It’s kind of late,” he said.

“Okay. Maybe we eat and we don’t fuck,” Rozanov offered. “Is okay?”

“I —”

They didn’t do this kind of thing. Or, perhaps more accurately, they hadn't done this kind of thing. Not yet, at least. Shane dredged his mind for a reason, a single reason, why it would be a bad idea. 

"I'm not hungry," he said again. "But... I can keep you company?"

“Okay. Come,” Rozanov said. 

Rozanov stood, forcing Shane to release the grip on his shirt. As Shane’s arms fell back against his side, he flexed his hands; his fingers ached and his palms felt sort of itchy, as if they yearned for something to hold onto again.

“I show you good Russian cooking,” Rozanov said. He grabbed one of Shane’s hands as if he thought Shane needed guiding to the kitchen and Shane tried to cling to some kind of annoyance instead of letting himself think about how that weird feeling in his hands disappeared as Rozanov’s palm had slid against his. 

‘Good Russian cooking’ turned out to be Kraft Dinner straight from the box. Seeing the neon orange powder that Rozanov sprinkled from a small packet — cheese, supposedly — made Shane very thankful he wasn't hungry.

Rozanov lounged against the stove topless because at some point he had tugged off his shirt, claiming it would “help him cook” and throwing Shane a wink that had no right to make Shane blush the way it had. They talked and laughed as Rozanov ate spoonfuls right out of the pot, and Shane found himself feeling thankful for agreeing to stay.

Blues and reds and greens danced over Shane’s screen as he stared at his phone, internally debating. It was Christmas Day and he should be enjoying celebrating with his family — he was enjoying it — but his mind kept drifting to Rozanov.

From what Shane understood, Rozanov didn’t seem open to returning to Russia. Of course, it’s possible that excluded short trips like holidays, but if not… would he be all alone today? But it’s not like he didn’t have friends just because Shane didn’t know about them. And why should he? His relationship with Rozanov was purely professional. Except when it wasn’t, but on those occasions it wasn’t a relationship at all, it was just… fun.

“Do you want the radio off, honey?”

“Huh?” Shane looked up to see his mom twisted around in the front passenger seat as she looked back at him. 

They were currently driving through the Magic of Lights in Nepean, a two-kilometre winding stretch of road with hundreds of gigantic Christmas light displays. And non-Christmas light displays, Shane was reminded just as a giant purple dinosaur passed through the window.

Part of the experience was dialling the radio to a certain station that played Christmas music. Some years, the combination of festive music and flickering, ever-changing lights made Shane twitchy and uncomfortable, and they’d spend the drive in silence.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, honestly. He hadn’t even really noticed the music.

“You seem a little distracted,” his dad added, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“Uh, yeah, I just… One sec.”

Without letting himself second-guess it any longer, he sent a quick text off to Rozanov: Merry Christmas.

It would have been weird if Shane hadn’t texted him something, right? That would have made a statement. This was fine. This was neutral. If anything, this was underwhelming. The day was almost over and Shane hadn’t even used an exclamation point, unlike almost everyone else he had texted holiday wishes to.

With that out of the way, he shoved his phone away and enjoyed the rest of the light show with his parents.

Hours later when he went to bed, he tried to ignore the sinking feeling at receiving no response back.

The wet shirt clung stubbornly to Shane’s skin as he struggled to strip it off. He had just finished a photoshoot for some kind of sports beverage which, for some reason, required him to wear a soaking wet white T-shirt.

Even once he was freed from it, the stupid shirt left behind a shivery-cold sensation that had Shane grimacing. He patted himself down with a towel and threw on his own clothes, rubbing at his arms to warm up.

Across the small dressing room, his phone sat on the vanity with a flashing notification light. Probably his mom; she was currently behind the scenes reviewing the final footage while he waited for her confirmation so they could leave. He walked over and swiped open his phone, only to frown at the message he found: Merry Christmas, plus a Christmas tree emoji.

“Yeah, fuck you,” Shane muttered, shoving his phone into his pocket. He managed about five minutes before he pulled it out and sent back, It’s a little late.

No. In Russia, we celebrate Christmas today.

Shane rolled his eyes. Then he texted the eyeroll emoji.

Is true, Rozanov insisted. We celebrate real Christmas. Your Christmas is fake.

Shane had a feeling Rozanov might be lying, as he liked to do for seemingly no reason other than personal amusement. But this was a rare moment when Shane didn’t have to just silently wonder; a simple search online would tell him the answer.

“Oh,” he said a few seconds later. 

Reopening his text thread with Rozanov, he sent, Merry ‘real’ Christmas, Rozanov.

You were naughty or nice this year?

Shane flushed and glanced at the closed door. He walked towards it and, just to be completely safe, clicked the lock into place. By the time he looked at his phone again, there was another text.

I think you were very very naughty.

What the hell was Shane supposed to say to that? And — 

You need to be punished?

No, Shane sent back. Just a minute ago he had been shivering and now he felt hot under the collar of his hoodie.

So you are good boy?

Shane’s eyes closed as he took in a shaky breath. His groin tightened at the memory of being on his knees with Rozanov’s cock filling his mouth. Of Rozanov’s hand, heavy and grounding, stroking his hair and the quiet, “Good boy,” that went straight to his dick.

He wanted to be, that was for sure. He always wanted to be good, both on and off the ice. It was a desire that had even infected his private fantasies of Rozanov. Sure, he still imaged Rozanov holding him down and fucking him, but sometimes his thoughts could be very different. Not even sexual, really; he would picture himself on his knees and Rozanov sitting somewhere — a couch or a bed, maybe. His head would be in Rozanov’s lap, cheek resting against Rozanov’s thigh, as Rozanov stroked his hair back and forth, back and forth, a soothing sensation that lulled Shane’s mind to somewhere quiet and calm. Sometimes the fingers would grasp and tug at his hair, shocking his scalp; other times, the fingers of Rozanov’s other hand would slip into Shane’s mouth and just rest there. But always, always, he would tell Shane over and over again: Good boy. You’re such a good boy for me. So perfect.

Swallowing thickly, Shane’s fingers trembled slightly as he texted back, Yes.

Say it.

What?

Say it, Hollander. Say I am good boy, sir.

Shane liked to think the heat that rushed down his spine and settled low in his back was anger and anger alone. I’m not saying that.

Hollander, is Christmas. Then, Please. Then, just to be really annoying, a Christmas tree emoji and a face with a single tear.

I’m a good boy, Shane sent back. That was all Rozanov was getting.

To Shane’s surprise, Rozanov didn’t nag him about leaving out the ‘sir.’ He just sent back, Yes you are, followed by, You are very good boy, with an emoji of a face blowing a kiss. 

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

A little delayed! Forgot I had an additional/unplanned scene to write :')

Apparently someone mentioned this fic on reddit — thank you! ❤️

“Rozanov,” Shane said to himself as he gently eased down on the brake, scanning for any open parking spots along the street. “Ro-za-nov.”

He had spent an embarrassingly long time practicing the proper pronunciation of Rozanov’s name. Multiple times now he had opened his mouth to put his efforts to use in front of Rozanov, but his confidence would deflate and he’d default to his usual pronunciation. 

Not today. Today, he was determined to finally say it.

Shane sighed as he finally spotted an opening and came to a stop. Looking over his shoulder, he turned his wheel to slowly back into the spot. Over the crunch of fresh snow, he said again, “Ro-za-nov. Ro-za-nov.”

Once he was parallel to the sidewalk, he straightened out his wheels and shut off the car, only to be met with a wall of cold air as he pushed open the door. It was a few blocks at minus sixteen degrees, plus wind chill, to get to Rozanov’s place, because he still didn’t feel comfortable parking any closer. 

“This better be fucking worth, it Ro-za-nov,” he muttered. But he couldn’t even convince himself he was truly irritated; by the time he would be trekking back to his car, he knew he’d be loose-limbed and flush with satisfaction.

By the time he arrived, he was jittery with a thrumming mix of anticipation, nervousness, and a certain baseline annoyance that seemed to always accompany his interactions with Rozanov.

Despite all his time practicing, Shane hadn’t thought to plan out anything else — a greeting to start, maybe a polite inquiry about how Rozanov had been; something he could sandwich Rozanov’s name in between to draw less attention to it. So when Rozanov finally opened the door, far more sedately than Shane really appreciated, he blurted out, “Rozanov!” and nothing else.

Rozanov blinked at him. “Why you say my name like this?” he asked, the barest curve hinting at the corner of his mouth.

Shouldering his way inside, because Rozanov never liked to make anything easy for him, Shane flushed. “Is it — wrong?” He had tried his best to put the emphasis on the middle syllable and pronounce the ‘v’ more like an ‘f.’

“Is always wrong,” Rozanov said bluntly. “But this is better.” His smile was starting to widen now as he closed the door behind them, crossing his arms and lounging against it. He was wearing a skin-tight black shirt with a deep V neckline that was cut so far down, Shane had trouble believing it had come like that. “You are trying to say it like Russian?”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Shane said instead of answering. He allowed himself a quick glance at Rozanov’s chiselled chest. The other two glances were not entirely voluntary. “You just… let me sound like an idiot —”

“Hollander,” Rozanov said. His smile had dropped and the teasing tone to his voice was replaced with something quieter. “Is not you. I do not, ah, correct anyone for this.”

“But I’m —” Shane bit down on his tongue viciously hard. But I’m not just anyone, he wanted to say. “I want to say it right.”

Rozanov’s expression softened and Shane shifted uncomfortably; he wondered if Rozanov knew what he had almost said, anyways. He suddenly felt too warm, standing in Rozanov’s foyer, still bundled up.

Rozanov pushed off the wall and with a few languid steps, he was standing right in front of Shane, his chest brushing Shane’s parka. He pushed back Shane’s hood before cupping his jaw. “Ilya Rozanov,” he said, pronouncing his name slow and careful. 

“Il-ya,” Shane said back. He hadn’t even realised there was any difference with Rozanov’s first name, too, but hearing it now, there were only two syllables. No “ee” sound in the middle like Shane had always thought. “Ro-za-nov,” with a smidge more emphasis on the third syllable.

“Mm, better,” Rozanov murmured. Shane’s responding smile was quickly smothered by the slow, firm press of Rozanov’s mouth against his. As always, Rozanov pulled away too soon. He regarded Shane with a tilted head. “You searched for me online finally.”

“I was curious.”

Rozanov smirked. “Was very sexy?”

“Shut up,” Shane said, shoving at Rozanov’s shoulder. “You’re very good, okay?”

“Mm, I do not think you watched much skating,” Rozanov said. “Probably only my ass, yes?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane said before hurriedly grabbing the back of Rozanov’s head and pulling him in for a kiss before Rozanov could see the answer in his burning cheeks.

“I want to fuck you against door this time,” Rozanov said as he shifted to kiss Shane’s cheek and hastily ripped at the zipper of his parka, exposing Shane’s throat to his mouth. 

As his back hit firm wood, Shane said, “What if someone hears?”

Rozanov pulled away to give Shane a flat look. “Hollander, is fucking Monday night. Who is coming to door?”

It wasn’t flawless logic, but Shane couldn’t really think of a rebuttal. Besides, the brief thought of someone walking up the front door and hearing his moans ignited a flash of heat that pooled in his belly and made his cock twitch. Thankfully it was concealed by the thickness of his parka, which was suddenly intolerably hot, and Shane fumbled to unzip it the rest of the way.

“No, leave it on. Is sexy,” Rozanov said.

Shane’s hand paused, halfway down his chest. “Wait, really?”

“Mm, no. You wear very ugly clothes always.”

“What? It’s a winter coat. It’s meant to be functional.” Gesturing down at himself, he added, “This is down filling!”

“Down? You did not say is down!” Rozanov gasped, mouth agape as he raised a single brown, but Shane’s triumph was only fleeting before Rozanov’s expression dropped. “The fuck is down, Hollander?”

“It’s —"

“Shut up,” Rozanov interrupted, shoving Shane’s parka off his shoulders and down his chest, too impatient to wait for Shane to finish unzipping it. “Turn around and be quiet, or I will fuck your face and you will not come tonight.”

Shane’s mouth fell open as he stared at Rozanov, flushed so hotly that his entire body pulsed with need. If it wasn’t for the bulky parka currently bunched around his legs and waist from Rozanov’s impatience, he might have dropped to his knees. Rozanov’s gaze dropped to his mouth and Shane realised he was slowly licking his bottom lip.

“Boyze moy, you want it,” Rozanov muttered. If his hands were impatient before, now they were frenzied, ripping at the parka so aggressively Shane was surprised he didn’t hear a tear. He managed to step out of the coat, stumbling a little, unbalanced in a way he never was as an athlete. “Want to choke on my dick for hours and I make you go home crying and hard in your pants?” Rozanov continued, grabbing Shane’s shoulders and spinning him around. He shoved Shane until he was head to toe against the door, face turned so the wood bit into his cheek. Then Rozanov pressed up behind him, crowding him impossibly closer. Breath warm in Shane’s ear, he said, “I would not even let you touch yourself when you are home.”

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Shane moaned, thigh muscles straining with the effort to shift his hips back against Rozanov’s groin. “Just fuck me already.”

“Ro-za-nov,” Rozanov corrected. The solid warmth of his body suddenly disappeared as he took a step back, leaving Shane panting and boneless against the door. Shane tried to subtly grind his hips forward instead but the cold, unforgiving wood was not nearly as pleasant.

Fuck. Shane had hesitated with trying to pronounce Rozanov’s name correctly in front of him because, among other concerns, he anticipated relentless teasing. But not in this way: that Rozanov would withhold sex if Shane ever said it wrong again.

“Ro-za-nov,” he said again. “Fuck me.”

“Okay.” Spoken as cavalierly as one of his easy shrugs, as if it made no difference to him either way. “Hands up,” he ordered. 

Shane’s pants and briefs were pushed all the way down to pool at his ankles but when Rozanov pressed against him once again, he could feel the soft material of his trackpants. Then there was the velvety-hot press of his cock rubbing against Shane’s ass and Shane moaned at the contrast: him, half-dressed, moaning against the door with desperation; and Rozanov, breath slow and calm in Shane’s ear, barely bothered enough to pull out his dick.

As Rozanov began to open him up, Shane wondered what it would be like if the front door actually had a pane of glass, and there were probably some mixed wires in his brain to blame but it was surprisingly tantalising. Closing his eyes, he couldn’t quite mistake the warm wood for cold glass, but the thought lingered, burning deliciously in the back of his mind and deep in his stomach.

The next time Rozanov’s cock brushed against him, he felt the familiar glide of lubricant-covered latex and even as his hips canted back, desperate for Rozanov to sink inside him, there was an unexpected twist of disappointment in his stomach.

Whenever the thought crossed his mind, a bright flare of arousal always followed, making his cock throb and hole clench eagerly: the thought of Rozanov fucking him without a condom, letting their bodies join so intimately, not a single, paper-thin barrier between them. The warm, smooth drag of Rozanov’s cock. Or rough drag sometimes, maybe; imperfect, the way skin was, unlike latex; catching along Shane’s walls. Would he feel it, he wondered — the hot burst of Rozanov’s come filling him up? He’d definitely feel it when Rozanov pulled out and Shane would try to keep tight, hold it in, but Rozanov’s come would still drip out, hot and wet down his thighs, and Rozanov would chastise him for wasting it —

“Hollander, what the fuck,” Rozanov groaned, ragged and half-breathless. He smacked Shane’s ass. “Easy.”

Pulled from his thoughts, Shane realised he was clenching around the head of Rozanov’s cock so hard his thighs were shaking. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. The ache was on the right side of painful and he held a moment, silently hoping that Rozanov might just push through the resistance of his body. “Fuck,” he said again as Rozanov refused to move, except to stroke a hand up and down Shane’s side, as if trying to calm him. “Yeah, okay.”

On a slow exhale, Shane closed his eyes and pressed his face even harder against the door, longing for a pillow or a mattress or a couch to smother himself with instead, and forced his muscles to relax.

“Good boy,” was all that was needed to make Shane moan, even before Rozanov started thrusting forward. “What, you were thinking of me?”

“Fuck off,” Shane said, gritting his teeth even as the words were reduced to something far more tremulous from the way his throat spasmed.

“Yes?” Rozanov said, settling a heavy hand on the back of Shane’s neck as he made room for himself in Shane’s body until they were pressed clothes to flesh.

Between Rozanov’s heavy weight and the unforgiving door, there was no room for the air in Shane’s lungs as he breathed out, “Yes.” There was no room for his cock, either, trapped against the tight muscles of his stomach.

“Tell me.”

Shane opened his mouth to mindlessly obey before quickly biting down on his lip, so hard his eyes squeezed shut even though the pain made his cock twitch eagerly. “No, just —" His chest burned as it desperately tried to expand.

“Okay,” Rozanov murmured. The hand on the back of Shane’s neck squeezed and Rozanov’s thumb rubbed up and down in a small motion. “No more thinking, okay? Stay with me.”

Shane nodded, or tried to, but mostly just scraped the skin over his cheekbone alongside the door.

Rozanov’s other hand grabbed onto Shane’s hip with an eye-watering grip and he slammed into Shane, again and again, hard enough to rattle the door on its frame. It was all Shane could do to keep his hands above his head — Rozanov had never given him permission to drop them and he was good — and not give into the shakiness of his knees.

“Fuck, yes, let them hear you,” Rozanov said. Shane wasn’t aware of any noise over the slick sounds of Rozanov fucking into him and Rozanov’s panted breaths filling his ear but his throat was burning and his mouth was sticky-dry, so he might have been moaning.

“Please, please, please,” he begged, “Come inside me. I need it. I need to feel you come inside me, Rozanov, please, I —"

It was nothing as sensible as shame that shut Shane up; instead it was Rozanov’s hand shoving up against his mouth, the heel of his palm against Shane’s lips and his fingers biting into Shane’s cheek.

“Fuck, Hollander, shut the fuck — I can’t —" Rozanov broke off into a short, hoarse, half-laugh. His hips stuttered to a halt and for two whole, excruciating breaths, he didn’t move. “You will make me come too fast.”

Shane groaned, turning his face forward until his nose screamed in protest from the solid wood. Under Rozanov’s warm, sweaty palm, his lips trembled with a sudden urge to cry. He was torn in two, aching with the need for Rozanov to spill inside him yet desperate to please, to allow Rozanov to use him as long as he wanted. He silently begged for Rozanov’s hand to keep him silent, preventing him from speaking, because without that, he knew he would say something humiliating, like beg Rozanov to rip the condom off and fuck him properly.

“Maybe I can make you cry on my cock still?” The mocking words were joined by too-sweet kisses to Shane’s ear and jaw. “I love when you cry for me, princess.”

“Fuck!”

It didn’t get past the barrier of Rozanov’s palm, muffled and half-formed, Rozanov’s grip so tight Shane’s jaw couldn’t even fully expand to say it. It remained trapped on his tongue as Shane spurted, almost painfully, between the friction of the door and his stomach.

“Feels so good,” Rozanov said, moaning brokenly as if he was the one coming. “Fuck, should have you every day.”

Shane nodded, slowly but eagerly.

“Is what you’re good for,” Rozanov continued and Shane cried out, the sound sharp even under Rozanov’s hand. With what little movement he could leverage, he rocked his hips back, revelling in each shock of oversensitivity from Rozanov’s continued thrusts.

“Takoy zhadnyy. You want more?”

Shane did, even as the sensation overwhelmed him, repeatedly building toward what felt like must be the height of intensity yet somehow always pushing past it. But he was not expecting Rozanov to curl a cruel hand around his hip and yank him back. Shane’s grunt turned into a yelp as the hand then reached forward and wrapped around his spent cock.

“Asshole, fuck, Rozanov! I can’t come again.”

“This is not for you,” Rozanov said in a cool, matter-of-fact tone. “Is for me.”

The words were so delicious that Shane felt almost intoxicated, chest slumping towards the door under the soft, agonising rhythm of Rozanov’s hand. 

“Pretty boy,” Rozanov continued, voice as soft as his hand, both in stunning contrast to the pistoning of his hips. “You can take?”

The question was a blur, one quickly forgotten because Shane felt the warm, blunt pressure of fingers at his mouth and his jaw creaked opened immediately. Not quite wide enough, but it didn’t matter, because Rozanov’s fingers crammed inside, making room against the roof of his mouth and tongue. Three fingers at first, then a fourth, and Shane whimpered. With half his face crushed against the wall and his mouth thoroughly occupied, he was down to only one nostril to breathe through.

Shane registered Rozanov’s mocking coo before he even registered the sting of tears in his own eyes. It might have been alarming, that he was so unaware of his own body, but Rozanov’s approval at Shane finally crying on his cock eclipsed anything else in that moment.

“Da, Hollander, perfect. Fuck,” Rozanov said right before licking a stripe up Shane’s burning cheek. His hand squeezed on Shane’s cock, blindingly tight, and Shane’s entire body spasmed, forcing Rozanov’s other hand a little deeper into his mouth, leaving him choking on his next breath.

“Feel so fucking good but I need a little more, princess,” Rozanov said, and Shane’s eyes squeezed shut as his lips trembled, fighting down the alarmed protest bubbling in his chest. “Come for me again. I know you can, baby.”

Shane couldn’t, he couldn’t. He was raw and aching and just wanted to be used. But then Rozanov’s fingers ripped from Shane’s mouth with a devastating, wet sound, only to be replaced by Rozanov’s mouth, lips crushing against Shane’s teeth as he sought out Shane’s tongue with his own, and it was Rozanov who made this noise, something indescribable and aching, as if torn from deep within him, and Shane was lost to all sound and sensation for a blinding few moments as his body submitted to Rozanov’s demand, somehow finding enough within him to come again so soon.

“Holy shit,” he muttered when he came back to awareness. 

The light, steady peppering of kisses against the back of Shane’s shoulder stopped as Rozanov asked, “Ready for more?”

“What?”

“I didn’t come yet.”

“What?” Shane groaned. He felt only vaguely aware of his limbs and body — like a logical conclusion not yet backed by something tangible — but he was quite certain he was going to be incredibly sore as soon as his awareness caught up to his nerve-endings. “I don’t fucking care anymore,” he said. It was pitifully untrue.

Rozanov laughed and, with the first sharp sting of returning sensation, Shane felt him pull out.

“You’re an asshole,” he said as he realised Rozanov was soft. Exhausted as he was, he could only manage a few seconds imagining Rozanov’s come dripping out of him, instead of it wasted, trapped inside of the stupid condom.

“Come,” Rozanov said, pulling Shane back. The sticky sound of his own skin peeling away from the door made his nose furl. Simply staying upright without something to lean against required intense concentration, yet he did not miss the cluck of Rozanov’s tongue.

“What?”

“You made big mess on your little — down coat.”

“What?” Shane looked down to see come smeared against his belly and dripping down the door. Thick ropes splattered across his underwear and jeans, too, still pooled around his ankles. Glancing around, he found his parka lying a few feet away and sighed in relief. Other than being crumpled carelessly on the floor, it was unharmed. “I fucking hate you.”

“Fucking hate me?” Rozanov said in disbelief. “Because I keep your coat safe when you are too slow to think of anything but cock?”

Groaning, Shane rubbed a hand over his face. His skin was sticky with more than just sweat, which made him grimace. Everything was a bit blurry in his mind, but Rozanov must have kicked his parka out of the way at some point. Of course, he wasn’t about to thank Rozanov for that.

“Yeah, and then made me think I ruined it!”

“Is little joke, Hollander,” Rozanov said. “You are so mean to me. Call me asshole. Say you hate me when I fuck you so good.”

Hands on Shane’s shoulders made him turn around once more. The manoeuvring was a bit awkward, between Shane’s post-orgasm exhaustion and his feet caught in a tangle of clothes.

“What is ‘chirp’?” Rozanov asked.

“Who taught you that word?” There was a quick flare in Shane’s chest as he thought of Rozanov spending time with other hockey players. It wasn’t jealousy, just… concern.

Rozanov seized Shane’s chin in one hand and shook his head; lightly, despite the firmness of his grip. “Answer question.”

“It means trash-talking. Insulting someone. Now where did you —"

“I read article,” Rozanov said, and Shane did not like the curve at the edge of his mouth, or the playful light in his eyes. “It says, ‘Shane Hollander is very nice boy who never, ah, chirp, other player —'"

“No, it didn’t.” Shane rolled his eyes and swatted half-heartedly at Rozanov’s forearm.

“Yes, yes, it says this, and I look up this word but I think maybe is wrong, because you are biggest asshole. So, cannot be true.”

A small smile pulled at Shane’s lips. “You sure are looking me up a lot.”

“No.”

“No?” Shane’s smile widened as Rozanov tried to pull his expression into something more neutral. “You just said —"

“Is not my fault. My phone has, ah… what is word?” Rozanov snapped his fingers impatiently. “It has…”

“An algorithm?” Shane guessed.

“What is —? No.” Before Shane could try to answer, he was silenced by a wave of Rozanov’s hand. “Like, I download bad video and now something is on my phone.”

“... A virus?”

“Yes! Virus. It is boring virus. Now phone only shows me most boring articles.”

Shane snorted, hopelessly amused by Rozanov’s antics. “You’re so fucking full of shit.”

Rozanov just sighed and shook his head a little. “See? So cruel.”

“I’m cruel?” Shane said, grinning openly as he let Rozanov grab his hands and drag him in towards the bedroom.

Since Rozanov was not only watching some of Shane's games but apparently reading articles about him as well, Shane decided it was perfectly logical to invite him to see a game in person. Besides, Rozanov could provide expert feedback on Shane's form and skills, much better than he could watching it from a screen.

“My parents aren’t coming to this one, so,” Shane explained as he offered Rozanov a ticket to an upcoming game on Saturday afternoon.

They were taking a break in the middle of the lesson. Rozanov was languid against the boards as he smirked at Shane. “Can’t play game without someone to cheer for you, like little baby?”

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered. He stared down at his feet, scraping the toe of one skate along the ice as he flushed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what? Tell me, Hollander. Use your words.”

Shane flushed even harder, feeling a bit like a scolded child. As he looked up, Rozanov crooked a single finger, beckoning him closer. Obligingly, Shane skated forward to join Rozanov against the boards, although he maintained a few feet of distance. It was an hour before closing and they were alone on the rink, but just in case. Security cameras and such.

“Thought you might wanna see a game in person.” Eyes widening with alarm — that was not what he meant to say — he practically tripped over himself to add, “And so you can give me feedback, you know? As a coach.”

That’s why he had waited until now to ask, during a lesson — because this was a professional request. It wasn’t for fun. And if Rozanov turned him down, that would be fine, because nothing was personal when it came to business.

“Da. As a coach,” Rozanov said. His eyes fell to Shane’s mouth before he pushed off from the boards. He skated forward and Shane stiffed, bracing to skate a step back, but he stopped before getting too close. “I will come to your little game.” 

Shane frowned and opened his mouth at that, but Rozanov bulldozered on. “And I will blow you, fuck you, whatever you want after, too. On one condition.”

“I — what?” Shane said dumbly.

“You score hat trick. For me.”

Shane laughed. Seeing Rozanov’s blank expression, his laugh turned incredulous. “I’ll score a hat trick,” he said firmly. “For my team.”

“Mm, no,” Rozanov said with a careless, dismissive tone. He came closer and this time, under Rozanov’s darkly promising gaze, Shane felt no urgency to move away. Rozanov caged him against the boards and helplessly, Shane’s head tipped forward, forehead nearly pressing against Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov’s nose brushed against his ear as he said, “It will be for me because I tell you.”

Shane shivered against him.

“Oh, honey, good news!” Yuna’s voice was a little crackly from the speakerphone as Shane transitioned into cobra pose. “Parvina had to reschedule for Saturday, so I can make your game after all! Your father is still —”

“What?” Shane snatched the phone from the floor. Despite spending nearly thirty minutes on a yoga routine that should promote harmony and relaxation, he felt distinctly unsoothed. “You want to come to my game?”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Yuna said. “You know I don’t like to miss your home games!”

Shane’s head felt suddenly light, which he couldn’t even blame on an inverted pose. Weakly, he said, “Right.”

There was a pause. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” Shane winced. “Um, no. It’s just. I invited someone.”

“Oh, well, I’d love to meet your friend.”

“It’s not like that!”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, it’s my coach,” Shane said. “You know. The figure skating one.”

“... Rozanov? You know, Shane, you can use his name. I mean, I remember the names of all your coaches and specialists and publicists and whoever else better than you do. And it’s been, what, two years now?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Shane said faintly. “Um. It’s weird.”

“Shane,” Yuna said in a sharp voice Shane did not often hear directed at him. “Did you just say his name is weird? I think we raised you better than that!”

Shane groaned, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye. “No, mom, I just. He’s kind of an ass, okay? I’m not sure you wanna spend a couple hours next to him.”

“Oh, unlike all the super warm and friendly coaches you’ve had over the years?” The disbelief in her voice was well warranted; Yuna had been managing Shane’s hockey career since long before it had even become a career. As a Japanese-Canadian woman spending countless hours rink-side at games and practices and various competitions, she wasn’t fazed by a little rudeness. “Besides, I’d love to hear what he has to say about you!”

“Right,” Shane said. “Of course.”

When he finally managed to get his mom off the phone, he sent a text warning Rozanov that she would be coming to the game after all.

Ok. I understand. I will not go, came Rozanov’s response.

That’s not what I’m saying, Shane replied, stupidly, because Rozanov was giving him a perfect out and yet Shane found himself adding, You can go. But don’t you think it’ll be weird?

Why weird? You think she will smell your come on me?

“Rozanov!” Shane exclaimed at his phone. He texted back, That’s gross!!

He got an eyeroll emoji followed by, I think I can sit with your mother and not say I am fucking her son.

“That’s not —” Groaning, Shane typed and deleted a few responses before sending, Okay. Then, Yeah. You’re right.

Later that day, Shane frowned at a text message he received from Rozanov: Says express shipping. I think it will arrive day before game. I should wear it?

Shane opened the link that followed, jaw dropping as he saw it was a Boston Raiders shirt. Thumbs flying across the screen, he typed back, Using my ticket?? Next to my mom?! and Only if you want her to hate you!

Shane didn’t think Rozanov would need assistance with that, anyways. Which — maybe he should have said that instead? Fuck. He really wasn’t good at chirping, on or off the ice.

This depends, Rozanov replied. Your mom has sexy mad face like you?

Shane made a quietly outraged noise.

What the fuck. 

That’s gross. 

Don’t talk about that. 

What sexy mad face???

They all got deleted. What he actually sent was, I’m blocking you.

No you are not. It came with a kissy-face emoji, which should not have made Shane’s stomach flutter with butterflies.

It felt significant that, out of all the teams in the league, Rozanov had chosen a Boston Raider’s shirt to tease him. He couldn’t say how much non-hockey people knew about hockey — the only non-player he really knew was his mom, whose knowledge of hockey probably rivaled his own — but he was pretty sure that the average person wouldn’t know of the long-standing Montréal-Boston rivalry.

Some unnameable feeling settled into his chest as he continued to stare at his phone long after their conversation had ended.

Shane was nearing the usual place where he met his parents after a game — a spot tucked down a maze of turns and hallways, unlikely to be found by lingering fans once he was done with any press — when he heard a familiar laugh.

Turning around a corner, he paused as he saw his mom laughing with one hand resting on Rozanov’s arm. Rozanov had a small but sincere-looking smile as he spoke, making Yuna laugh even harder.

Rozanov glanced over his shoulder and, spotting Shane, his smile sharpened just a little. Then his eyes burned a slow trail down Shane’s game-day suit and the sharpness turned into something wicked.

Following Rozanov’s gaze, Yuna smiled brightly and waved him over. He did not immediately move towards them, frozen in place by this surreal image. He hadn’t expected Rozanov to linger. 

Swallowing, he fiddled with his tie a bit, but that triggered a terrifying thought that his mom might find something wrong with it and try to adjust it in front of Rozanov. He previously had had to ask her to stop doing that kind of stuff because some of the guys teased him about needing his mommy. Would she realise the same kind of rule applied to Rozanov? He was just Shane’s coach, after all.

Growing impatient, Rozanov started waving. Unlike Yuna’s polite, encouraging wave, it was a loud gesture, with his arm arcing over his head. Shane took slow, trepidatious steps towards them, glancing between the two with a growing sense of dread. He did not like this.

“Your mom teach me new English phrase,” Rozanov said, sending Yuna a wink. “When that guy hit you against boards.”

Well, at least in a sea of bizarreness, one thing remained familiar.

“Sorry,” he said. “My mom’s really intense about hockey.”

“I like it,” Rozanov said. “She is not where you get your boring from. Must be dad, yes?”

With a small, smug smile, Yuna said, “Well, I guess you could say I’m the cool parent.”

Shane frowned. “Dad’s not boring,” he said. Watching as Rozanov and Yuna exchanged a silent look, he decided he really, really did not like this.

Yuna reached out to pat his shoulder. “Good game, sweetheart,” she said, and he tried not to feel rankled by how belated it was. Usually it was the first thing he heard from his mom after a game, followed by whatever game-play analysis or other insights she might have. “I was just saying there must be room for one more for dinner tonight, right?”

“What?” Shane said. “For who?”

Yuna’s head tilted as her smile wavered. It was a look that said Shane had said or done something not quite normal. “Well, Mr. Rozanov, of course.”

“What?” Shane said again. He looked at Rozanov, trying not to show his panic. Rozanov, of course, looked perfectly neutral. “I-I can’t make it.”

For a brief moment, Yuna looked perplexed. Possibly because they were in Montréal and Shane was the one hosting them for dinner. Then she whipped out her phone. “Oh, please, like I don’t manage your calendar. See, I booked your father and I in for dinner weeks ago,” she said, turning the screen towards Shane. He didn’t even bother glancing down at it as his face heated. “You know we were always planning to see you tonight, even when we thought we’d both have to miss your game.”

Once, Shane had mentioned something off-handedly to Hayden about his mom managing his calendar for him. Hayden had teased him relentlessly because, similar to the tie thing, apparently that was unusual. Now, risking another glance at Rozanov, he felt his face grow even hotter as Rozanov rubbed a hand over his mouth, clearly trying to conceal a smile. 

“I-I mean,” Shane stammered. “I don’t think Rozanov can make it.”

“Oh, I can come,” Rozanov said happily.

Shane glared at him. Were he on his deathbed, he was pretty sure Rozanov still wouldn’t show the tiniest sliver of mercy.

“Excellent!” Yuna said.

“I will see you both soon,” Rozanov said. He shot Shane a quick, impish grin before turning to face Yuna fully. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Hollander.” Then he placed his hands on Yuna’s upper arms and leaned forward and — Shane made a small, shocked noise — kissed both her cheeks.

“Oh!” Yuna said, giving a startled laugh.

“Sorry,” Rozanov said, though his expression was distinctly unapologetic as he pulled away. “Is Russian greeting.”

“Oh, how lovely,” Yuna said.

Shane waited until Rozanov disappeared around a corner before turning back to his mom. “What was that?” he hissed.

“What? He’s such a lovely boy, Shane!” Yuna said. 

Boy? Shane thought wildly. 

“And he had such nice things to say about your skating!”

Just like that, the growing knot in Shane’s stomach seemed to vanish as he eyed his mom. “Like what?”

With a few hours left before dinner, Yuna dragged Shane to the grocery store in search of “normal food,” as she put it.

Usually when his parents visited for a game, Shane would take them out to a restaurant for dinner; it always proved a bit difficult, with his diet plan, but he would make do for their sake. But for an afternoon game like this, his dad always insisted on cooking in Shane’s own kitchen so they could enjoy a proper — if different — meal together. Even though a networking event in town had overlapped with Shane’s game this time, his dad insisted on holding to the tradition. 

Shane was trying to smile politely as his mom debated the merits of different types of pasta when he received a text. Seeing it was from Rozanov he hoped, for a fleeting second, that Rozanov had come to his senses and was cancelling dinner. Instead, the messages said: Your father. A second later, How is he?

Shane frowned. Like, right now?

No Hollander. As person.

Good? Shane sent back. He was deeply, deeply confused. He’s nice. Is that what you mean?

It was a few minutes later when Rozanov replied with a simple, Ok.

The smell of garlic and herbs filled Shane’s apartment as he paced by the front door. With his own meal already prepared in advance, he had helped his dad with the cooking for as long as possible. By five-thirty, his anxiety had him all but fleeing the kitchen which meant that, as soon as the doorbell rang close to six, he was able to immediately fling open the door.

There was Rozanov, standing at his doorstep. Not technically a surprise, yet Shane’s mind needed a moment to process this information until it felt real. 

His curls were smoother than Shane had ever seen them, though Shane didn’t know enough about styling hair to even guess what Rozanov might have changed. He wore a nice black shirt that covered a surprising amount of skin — Shane could only hope it wasn’t sleeveless or transparent along the back, something ridiculous like that — and a jacket far too thin for the winter. In one hand he held a bottle of what appeared to be liquor and in the other hand, a large bouquet of flowers.

“You brought gifts?” Shane asked, bewildered.

“Yes, Hollander,” Rozanov said. “I am not animal.”

“No, you’re just an asshole,” Shane said, rolling his eyes as he stood back to begrudgingly let Rozanov inside.

“I am asshole?” Rozanov said. “Because I accept your beautiful mother’s very kind invitation for lovely dinner?”

Shane had never heard Rozanov use so many adjectives before. He was still trying to think of a response when he heard his mother’s voice.

“You’re here!” Suddenly appearing beside Shane, Yuna leaned forward to meet each of Rozanov’s cheek kisses. It looked effortlessly practiced, as if they had been greeting each other like this for years. “Come in, come in,” she said.

“I bring this for you,” Rozanov said, after a moment to take off his shoes and step further inside.

“You brought me flowers?” Yuna gasped.

“Ah, no. Flowers are for boring husband.” Holding up the bottle, he said, “Vodka is for fun people only.” Then he turned to Shane with a half-hearted shrug. “Sorry.”

Yuna laughed. Hard. Shane didn’t think it was that funny, really.

“Well, why don’t I take care of the flowers on my husband’s behalf?” she offered, accepting the bouquet from Rozanov. “Shane, do you have a vase?”

“I don’t know,” Shane said. “Why would I have a vase?”

“I’m sure your interior designer bought one and displayed it somewhere.”

“Your what?” Rozanov said after Yuna had left in search of something Shane may or may not even own.

“When I bought the place, I hired an interior designer to, you know. Buy all the furniture and décor and stuff.” At Rozanov’s laugh, Shane crossed his arms. “What?”

“Your mom makes your calendar, you hire — design person.”

“She doesn’t make my calendar, she just… schedules a lot of my things outside of games. And what's wrong with any of that?" Shane asked hotly.

“No, I did not say is wrong,” Rozanov said. “You are very… priveredlivyy. I do not know word in English. Fussy, maybe.”

Shane was about to argue the absurdity of such a claim when David appeared from the hallway, wearing a marinara-stained apron. Shane saw Rozanov’s posture shift, spine going rigid and shoulders rolling back as his expression fell into blankness. There was something odd to it, unlike the coolly neutral expression Shane was well used to during lessons.

Sounding stiff and formal, Rozanov said, “Hello, sir.”

David smiled and held out his hand. “Mr. Rozanov! It’s nice to meet you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rozanov said, shaking his hand. His earlier joke was apparently forgotten as he held up the vodka and said, very gravely, “This is very good vodka. Best you will find outside Russia.”

“Can’t wait to try some!” David said before gesturing behind himself. “Dinner’s almost ready, okay, boys?”

This is so fucking weird, Shane thought to himself as he watched his dad walk back down the hallway towards the kitchen. He almost said it out loud but stopped himself, not entirely sure he wanted to know what Rozanov’s response might be.

But despite how bizarre everything felt, the dining table was soon set with a huge pot of pasta along with bread, salad, and freshly grated parmesan. Shane had already set out a glass of water for each person; the unexpected vodka meant he had to bring out smaller glasses as well. He had been tempted to bring in only three – he didn’t like to drink during the season – but decided he actually might need a bit of alcohol to get through this.

Yuna was still off trying to find a vase as Shane, Rozanov, and David all took a seat. As Shane settled, he felt a slight brush against his leg — Rozanov’s thigh. It should have been an insignificant, incidental touch; he had felt Rozanov’s entire naked body against him, after all. But there was something distinctly intimate about this, sitting at a dining table, together, in Shane’s own home.

He was spared from what felt suspiciously like growing panic as Yuna bustled through the doorway. Shane had no idea where she possibly found the vase she was holding, which looked comically small trying to contain the gigantic flowers Rozanov had brought.

“Shane, can you make some room?” she asked, gesturing to the large pasta pot. Once it was moved aside, she carefully placed the vase in the centre of the table. Rozanov visibly preened, sitting a little straighter and giving a pleased smile. It was strangely adorable and Shane found himself biting back his own smile.

“Well, everyone, dig in!” David said, passing the pot of pasta to Rozanov to start. Rozanov was not shy serving himself a large portion. He then passed the pot to Shane, who immediately passed it across the table to Yuna.

“What is this?” Rozanov asked, pointing to the pre-prepared meal sitting on Shane’s plate. He frowned at it like it had personally offended him. 

“Grilled salmon and steamed vegetables,” Shane said, though the answer seemed obvious.

“Shane likes to keep a pretty strict diet during the on-season,” David said.

Rozanov raised a brow. “You do not eat your father’s lovely pasta?”

“It will taste just as lovely in July,” Shane muttered. He watched, a little horrified, as Rozanov sprinkled multiple heaping spoonfuls of parmesan all over his pasta.

Once everyone was served, it was David who broke the growing silence. "So, Mr. Rozanov…"

“Ilya, please. I am not on ice.” There was a tapping sensation against Shane’s foot as Rozanov shot him a look. “You, too,” he said. “Shane.” His mouth was so careful forming Shane’s name, it felt stretched out purposefully slow.

“Okay,” Shane agreed, face a little warm. He only meant to try out the shape of Rozanov’s name on his own lips, but somehow there was breath behind it and pressure on his vocal cords, and “Ilya” tumbled from his mouth, soft and unbidden. Something in Rozanov’s — Ilya’s — gaze sharpened as his eyes fell to Shane’s mouth, briefly, and back up.

The awkward sound of a throat clearing startled Shane into dropping his fork. He cringed at the noisy clatter as it hit his plate. Quickly snatching it back, he managed one calm, very normal bite of salmon before risking a look over at his parents. He tried desperately to decipher their expressions but they both smiled as happily and warmly as ever.

“How long have you been coaching?” David asked.

A moundful of pasta was halfway to Ilya’s mouth. Thankfully, he lowered it before answering. “Over one year. But I skate since two. First international competition at thirteen.”

His parents both made impressed sounds. “That’s amazing. But you seem quite young to be coaching,” Yuna said with a tone that was inquisitive bordering on interrogative.

“Ah, and you look too young to be Shane’s mother,” Ilya said smoothly. “Is not possible, I think.”

“Oh, please.” Yuna laughed off Ilya’s obvious flattery but it was not enough to dissuade her from her line of questioning. “So, why are you no longer competing? Why did you switch to coaching?”

Ilya’s smile turned a bit strained as he rubbed at one of his ears. It reminded Shane of his discomfort when Shane had tried to ask him about his injury — the one that, as far as Shane now understood, had ended his competitive career.

“He’s really the best,” Shane said. Feeling Ilya’s eyes on him, he nudged his foot back against Ilya’s. “Theriault has tried sending all the players to him but none of them could tough it out.”

For a few seconds, Ilya continued to stare at him. Then, turning back to Shane’s parents, he nodded. “They are too weak,” he said. “But not Shane. He is very committed.”

Warmth spread through Shane’s chest as his parents both broke out into proud smiles. A little smugly, Yuna said, “Well, that doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

Conversation flowed quite naturally after that. Yuna and Ilya filled David in on the game, with enough enthusiasm and detail that Shane, who actually played the game, was not needed. Ilya asked politely about Yuna and David’s jobs and when David started talking about his indeterminate position at the Treasury Board of Canada, Shane felt another nudge against his foot. As he glanced over at Ilya, Ilya raised a single brow; quickly, so Shane knew it was only meant for him. See, I told you, he is very boring, the look seemed to say.

Yuna asked how long Ilya had been in Canada, and David asked if his family had moved with him. When Ilya explained he came alone, Yuna’s expression softened. “That must’ve been really hard,” she said. 

“No, is good,” Ilya said. “Canada cannot handle so many sexy Russians.”

Everyone laughed. Except for Shane, who worried that he might laugh too hard, or too weirdly, so instead he did nothing, but what if that actually looked worse?

Shane was drawn from his building panic as David said, “You know, we’re really glad Shane has you, Ilya.”

Ilya nodded gravely. “Yes. He is very bad player before he sees me.”

Shane’s parents laughed again, completely unfazed by the way Shane glared at them all. 

“It seems you two are very close.”

The glare was quickly replaced by a coughing fit as Shane almost choked on a piece of salmon. “What do you mean?” he asked hoarsely.

“Well, Shane…” Yuna trailed off, trading a look with David. “You don’t exactly have a lot of friends.”

Shane closed his eyes as he quietly groaned. This might be worse, somehow, than if his parents had suspected they were fucking.

“We just worry about you sometimes!” Yuna continued, much to Shane’s horror. “And it’s good to know you have people here in Montréal. First, that nice Hayden boy, and now —”

“Hayden? As in Pike?” Ilya clicked his tongue. “He is very bad player. Maybe the worst player, ever.”

“We’re not talking about his hockey skills,” Shane said. Then, frowning, he added, “And he’s a good player, for the record!”

“I just am saying,” Ilya said, spreading his hands out in front of him in a gesture of innocence. “Maybe he is bad friend for your son, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander. I am much better.”

After an unnecessarily long bout of laughing, David said, “Just David and Yuna, please.”

Ilya’s eyes widened a bit as he stared across the table. “Yes, David,” he said finally. “Thank you.”

At the end of the meal, David patted his stomach and groaned. “Well, we should clean up so we can hit the road.”

“No, please,” Ilya said. “I will clean and help Shane.”

“Ilya, you’re a guest —” Yuna started.

“Yuna, please,” Ilya said very severely. “This insults me as Russian.”

At his parents’ confused looks, Shane sighed. “He’s joking.” He glanced over at Ilya, whose expression gave away nothing. “... I think. But really, you guys should hit the road before the snow starts.”

It was a bizarrely domestic display, Shane and Ilya walking his parents to the front door. Yuna had removed the flowers and carefully wrapped them back up in the brown paper they had arrived in. “You played such a good game today,” she said as she gave Shane a hug. “But work on that backhand, okay?”

Rozanov snickered.

“Yes, mom,” Shane said glumly. As his dad pulled him into a hug, he craned his head, watching as Yuna and Ilya did their stupid kiss farewell thing again.

And then David was standing in front of Ilya with his arms spread out and Shane thought he saw something — a muscle jump in Ilya’s cheek — but it was too quick to say before David pulled him in for a quick hug.

“Thank you so much for dinner,” Ilya said. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked, for all intents and purposes, very sweet.

“We’ll have to do this again some time!” Yuna said. From the look she gave Shane, he knew his attempt at a smile came across more like a grimace.

He had barely shut and locked the door when Ilya was on him, grabbing him by the shoulder to turn him around.

So…” He gave Shane a slow, downward look. “Did you think of me?”

“When?” Shane asked, confused.

Leaning in to whisper in his ear, Ilya said, “When you make sexy little hat trick.”

“I told you,” Shane huffed, pushing at Ilya’s chest. “I scored for my team.”

“Mm, they can think that,” Ilya said. “Tell me. Who did you really think of?”

Between Ilya’s warm proximity and heavy gaze, Shane had no choice but to look down. With painful honesty, he said, “You. I thought of you.”

Ilya grabbed his chin, the curl of his fingers biting into Shane’s cheek and making him look back up. “It was very sexy,” he said. “You are very good boy for me, Shane Hollander.”

Shane made a small noise. His knees felt a little weak and he hoped Ilya didn’t notice the way he had to suddenly brace his palms against the door.

“Okay. What do you want?” Ilya said. Tilting his head, he stared at Shane appraisingly. “My mouth? You want me to fuck you?”

“Both,” Shane said. And he had to admit it felt nice, being the one to grab Rozanov’s hand and lead him someplace new for the first time.

Chapter End Notes

Boyze moy — my God
Takoy zhadnyy — so good
Priveredlivyy — fastidious (was trying for something more like ‘persnickety,’ lol)

My tumblr :)

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

Important note!! Back in chapter 6 when Shane found out Ilya’s age, they were supposed to be 21 (not 19) — by then, it was approx. 1.5 years since they had first met. Sorry for that!!

(Despite agonising over the timeline for this fic, it turns out I forgot to make sure their ages actually aligned with it, lol. I originally didn’t want to add timestamps to the scenes, but maybe that would be for the best?? FYI, this chapter is 6-8 months after chapter 6, so they’re still 21.)

Also, I was really blown away by the response to the last chapter!! Thank you so much to everyone for your support. It truly means so much & is so encouraging. <333

“I think your parents like me very much,” was how Ilya greeted him at their next private lesson.

Shane sighed. “Yeah, they won’t stop talking about you.”

Ilya was already on the ice, leaning against the boards impatiently as Shane slipped off his guards. “It is long drive, to Ottawa?”

The tingle at the back of Shane’s neck had nothing to do with the cool air of the arena. “... Why?”

Ilya pushed off from the boards with a shrug. “They invite me to dinner,” he said before skating away.

“What?” Shane said. “No, they didn’t!” Throwing off his remaining guard, Shane pulled out his phone and rapidly texted his mom. Then he hurried onto the ice and skated after Ilya, shouting, “How are you two even talking?”

Ignoring this urgent question, Ilya turned around and began to skate backward, facing Shane with an impish grin. “She agrees with me about Pike,” he said. “I think she does not like him.”

“What? Of course she likes him.” 

As Shane began to catch up, he was very tempted to shove at Ilya, wipe that look off his face. But they weren’t alone on the rink, and he was pretty sure any physical tussle between them ran the risk of turning into something inappropriate.

“Mm, no,” Ilya said. “But she will tell me truth, at dinner.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Okay, so you don’t know anything. You’re just making shit up.”

“This is attitude you give your coach?” Ilya’s brows raised in mock outrage. “Bag skates for you! Hundred bag skates!”

Shane rolled his eyes. Ilya did make him do a round of bag skates, though, at the end of the lesson.

Shane had just put his car in park outside the arena when his phone began ringing. Glancing over at it, he was surprised to see the name Lily across the screen. Thankfully, he still had about thirty minutes before practice started — he could spare a few minutes.

“Hello?”

“... Hello.”

Ilya’s voice came through the phone a little odd, almost like his accent was thicker. Shane realised it was the first time they had spoken over the phone.

“Your parents like me?” Ilya asked.

“Uh, yeah. Aren’t you going to their place tonight?”

Ilya had not just been invited for dinner. He had been invited for dinner and to watch Shane’s game. He shuddered thinking of the forces of his and Yuna’s critical gazes joined together once again, picking apart every manoeuvre he made. It would be even worse this time, seeing how well they apparently got along.

“Yes, but…” 

The hesitation in Ilya’s voice pulled Shane from his growing despair. It was so unexpected, he was almost tempted to pull his phone away from his ear and double-check it was still “Lily” on the other end.

“Maybe I think they ask because… they are sad for me?”

Shane frowned. “You mean like a pity invite?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“No, Ilya. Why would they pity you?”

“I don’t… have this,” Ilya said quietly.

“Have what?”

“I — Nevermind. This is not me. I do not… worry like this.”

“No, you don’t,” Shane said. He smiled, feeling unabashedly endeared by Ilya’s uncharacteristic worrying. For Shane’s parents, no less. “You know, they haven’t invited Hayden over for dinner before.”

“No? I am winning.”

“Winning,” Shane scoffed. He could hear Ilya’s smug smile through the phone. “You’re ridiculous. But no, they don’t pity you, Ilya. They like you. For some strange reason.”

Between practice, team meetings, pre-game media, and finally post-win press, Shane didn’t check his phone until he was walking to his car after the game. There was a barrage of texts, mainly from his parents, and Shane had a heart-clenching moment of panic thinking something had gone horribly wrong before his mind began to actually process the words and images he saw.

From his dad: Look at this! with a picture of some kind of Russian vodka. Maybe it was different from the Russian vodka Ilya had brought last time? Shane couldn’t tell.

But that wasn’t the only photo. There was one of Ilya standing with David at the stove, stirring some kind of stew. The next had Shane breaking into a smile — Ilya and Yuna were sitting on the couch, both yelling at the television. According to the message attached, the Houston Drillers had just scored.

Thumbing over to his text messages with Ilya, he said, Looks like you had a good time.

The reply came under a minute later: Yes. Then, You are very lucky.

Yeah. They’re great.

Yes, came Ilya’s reply. Three little dots appeared and disappeared, then reappeared again. Shane halted in the middle of the parking lot, metres from his car as he watched, for over a minute, as Ilya typed and deleted several messages. He had never seen Ilya do that before. 

I am very honoured, Ilya finally sent.

I’m glad, Ilya. Really. They’d love to see you again.

Yes I think I am their favourite skater now. Then, just in case Shane wasn’t already rolling his eyes, Yes this includes hockey skaters.

Shane was debating how to respond when another message arrived. It is so late. Your parents offer me to sleep here. Maybe I will come in your childhood bed?

You mean sleep? Shane responded, frowning.

No, followed by a winky face.

It took Shane a moment, then his face flushed furiously. That’s disgusting! he texted as he resumed walking, with furious strides now, towards his car. 

Is just a joke, Shane, relax, Ilya said back. I am driving home soon.

Shane huffed and shoved his phone into his pocket just before unlocking his car and slipping into the driver’s seat. On his drive over to a bar to join the team for celebrations, he did not think about Ilya in his bed, jerking off to thoughts of him.

Perhaps it should have been concerning, how easily Shane fell into this new, unnamed… thing with Ilya. But he felt happy. Giddy, almost. The only thing he could compare it to was when he had earned first draft pick. His parents had even commented on his good mood more than once, usually sharing a glance Shane couldn’t decipher when he’d shrug and just say things were going well.

His teammates had noticed a change in him, too. Thanks to Hayden’s loud mouth, they were all convinced it was some woman named Lily — a lie Shane did not go out of his way to add to but certainly did not dispel. Though he was certainly more careful about shielding his phone’s screen in the lockers, and continued to delete anything particularly incriminating from Ilya, as he always had.

When it came to Ilya coming over to his place, though, he was still uneasy. The only person who knew his address outside of his parents was Hayden, and he didn’t expect any unexpected visits from him or anything but, well, that was the problem — if it ever happened, it would be unexpected.

There were rare occasions when Shane craved Ilya’s presence like a physical ache yet all the effort and sensations required to leave the house — bundling up in itchy clothes, getting into his car, squinting against the floods of lamplights and headlights from oncoming traffic as he drove to Côte-des-Neiges — was too much. Tonight was one of those nights; he had just returned from a series of away games, and wanted to enjoy the simple pleasure of sleeping in his own bed.

And getting fucked in his own bed.

“Hey,” he said as he opened the door to Ilya. His smile turned to a frown as he took in the too-thin material of Ilya’s light grey sweater. “It’s way too cold. Where’s your jacket?”

Ilya smirked as he stepped inside and spun them both around, pressing Shane against the door. “You are my mother now?”

“Shut up,” Shane said with a roll of his eyes. Annoyed as he was, he found Ilya’s reddened nose and cheeks adorable. 

“Mm, soon,” Ilya murmured, stepping closer as his gaze dropped to Shane’s mouth. “How was flight?”

“Boring.”

“Ah. Must have been very nice for you, yes?”

“Fucking asshole.” Shane shoved at Ilya, but Ilya grabbed his hands and pressed them into the door above his head; a familiar gesture. Less familiar was the way Ilya intertwined their fingers along the way. It sent a bright, giddy shiver through Shane.

Their kisses were languid and unhurried. As soon as Ilya released his hands, Shane cupped Ilya’s face, rubbing his thumbs across Ilya’s cold cheeks and smiling as his skin gradually warmed under his touch.

He hissed and jerked back at a shock of cold against his stomach — Ilya had rucked up his shirt and pressed the backs of his ice-cold hands to Shane’s bare stomach. But his irritation quickly passed and soon they were laughing into each other’s mouths.

There was no sense of urgency as they moved deeper into Shane’s apartment, stumbling towards the stairs blindly. They seemed to find it by pure chance, Ilya's back eventually knocking against the glass wall alongside the staircase. Shane sank his arms around Ilya’s neck, his thigh hot against Ilya's groin as he pressed closer. Ilya’s hands found Shane’s stomach once again but this time, his touch was pleasantly warm as he squeezed at Shane's muscles and stroked up and down his sides.

Eventually, though, they remembered the purpose of Ilya’s visit and stumbled up the staircase, kissing the whole way. At the top, Ilya paused to lift Shane up.

“Oh, my God,” Shane said as he wrapped his legs around Ilya’s waist. “Holy shit.”

Shane didn’t know how Ilya could possibly detect the difference between a night when ripping off Shane’s clothes and haphazardly tossing them around the room would earn Ilya a mild scolding versus a night like tonight, when something like that would make Shane itch uncomfortably. But he seemed to, unerringly; tonight he deposited Shane on the bed then stepped back, giving Shane the space to carefully strip and fold all his clothes.

Feeling Ilya’s gaze on him, Shane looked up, expecting to see Ilya motioning him to hurry up; he had only removed his hoodie so far, which he was currently folding. Instead, he found Ilya paused with his left leg lifted, about to tug off his sock, as he stared at Shane with a fond smile.

“I think you missed me,” Ilya purred once Shane was finally stretched out beneath him, his hand cupping Shane’s aching cock. “Maybe sometimes when you are away, we can fuck over video call.”

“We share rooms on the road,” Shane said, squirming at Ilya’s loose, teasing grip.

“You should let them listen,” Ilya murmured before licking a broad stripe across Shane’s pulse. “Like bonding experience.”

Shane whimpered as his cock twitched in response. He tried to tell himself it was from Ilya’s mouth alone, but the thought of someone overhearing them was weirdly exciting. Before he could think about it too much, though, Ilya was pulling away to stare down at him with a frown.

“You share room with who?” he asked.

“Hayden.”

Shane rolled his eyes as Ilya’s frown deepened into a full scowl. “Pike cannot listen,” he said seriously, as if there was any reality in which any of this would ever happen. “No bonding for him.”

“You’re insane.” The words turned to a gasp as Ilya licked Shane’s ear before tugging at his earlobe with his teeth.

Ilya prepped Shane with his mouth first. When he switched to his fingers, he slinked up Shane’s body to bring them face-to-face, nudging his nose at Shane’s cheeks and murmuring in soft Russian at each noise that escaped Shane’s mouth.

“Ilya, please,” Shane gasped. Ilya had three fingers buried in him and his feet slipped desperately on the bedding as he tried to thrust into Ilya’s touch. “I need to feel you.”

“Da, moy neterpelivyy kotenok,” Ilya said, kissing Shane’s cheek before reaching to grab a condom from Shane’s nightstand.

Shane’s head tipped back on a throaty moan when Ilya’s cock first breached him. “Oh, fuck, I missed this.” As soon as the words slipped out, underneath the heated coiling of arousal in his stomach was a sharp stab of embarrassment. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see Ilya’s reaction.

Something warm pressed against his shoulder — Ilya’s forehead. From the hot beat of Ilya’s breath against his skin, he realised Ilya was already panting.

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya’s voice sounded strangled. With a breathless little chuckle, he said, “I do not think I will be long.”

“Been a while?” Shane asked. He huffed as the warm skin of Ilya’s forehead brushed up and down in a nod against his shoulder. “How do you think I feel?”

He didn’t think it was a secret that he wasn’t fucking anyone else. Well, there was — Samantha, but Shane hadn’t told Ilya about that yet. He wasn’t entirely sure he would. It hardly counted, anyways. Possibly didn’t count at all, considering Shane hadn’t even —

“Is same for me.” Ilya turned his head, mumbling the words against Shane’s throat.

“What?” Shane said dumbly. Grabbing at Ilya’s curls, he tugged urgently. The sound Ilya made and the snap of his hips had Shane throwing his head back in a brief moan, but he couldn’t afford to lose focus. It was dangerous, asking a question he might not want the answer to, yet something in Ilya’s half-lidded gaze and flushed skin pushed him to ask it anyways. “How long?”

Ilya blinked at him a few times, his eyes hazy and lips a distracting, plush pink. “February.”

“But that’s the last time we —”

“Da,” Ilya agreed, dipping down to press a kiss to Shane’s eye. “Very good. You can do math.”

“That’s not really math,” Shane argued, then he lost all thought as Ilya anchored him to the bed with two firm hands around his hips and began to slam into him fervently.

Shane grunted as he felt Ilya move, tightening his arm around Ilya’s chest. “Don’t go,” he said tiredly.

“I go to shower.”

“No, just…” Shane took in a deep breath. His mind was muddled and words a bit slurred; it was hard to think. “Few minutes, ‘kay?”

There was an awful silence. Shane felt Ilya move and braced himself for sinking disappointment but instead of getting up, Ilya just settled a little closer. “Okay.”

Shane’s skin was sticky, especially between his thighs. Everything felt a little too damp — his hair, his body, the bedding, even the air in the room. But he was also warm and comfortable, and everything smelled of Ilya. He liked that smell.

Ilya’s fingers settled on his cheek, stroking back and forth, and Shane hummed contentedly. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the weight of Ilya’s gaze as it settled on him. “What?” he asked.

“What?” Ilya said back.

“You’re staring at me,” Shane said, struggling to open his eyes just enough to see Ilya’s blue gaze was actually settled just slightly below his eyeline.

“Not you.” Tapping his fingertips along the ridge of Shane’s cheek, Ilya said, “These.”

“My freckles?”

“Yes. I like them very much. Much more than you.”

Shane laughed. Then, his brain a hazy, nonsensical blur, he said, “‘M always so tired.

“After I fuck you?”

He hummed affirmatively. Then, one eye peeking open again, he said, “You’re never tired.”

“I am, moy kotenok,” Ilya said, voice laced with amusement.

“It’s good for you, right?” Shane asked.

Ilya had said he hadn’t fucked anyone since February, which should have been reassuring, but Shane reminded himself that it didn’t necessarily mean anything; he could’ve fucked someone after the last time he had hooked up with Shane, then simply been too busy to fuck anyone else for the past month and a half.

“Yes,” Ilya said. As he patted Shane’s hair, Shane’s limbs, already languid and relaxed, somehow found room to melt even further into the mattress. “Very good. Always.”

There was something in Ilya’s tone, a quiet hesitation, that had Shane peeling his eyes open once again. He watched, silent, as Ilya pushed up and settled back against the headboard. His nose twitched; the small, distinctly-Ilya gesture made Shane smile.

“It was not like this with before. With coach’s son,” Ilya finally said, staring straight ahead at the far wall.

That was not something Shane had expected to hear. “What?”

“You ask me once if it is always this good,” Ilya said. He continued to stare at the wall. “No.”

Shane’s mouth was a little dry. He had to lick his lips a few times before he could speak. “And this is…?”

Ilya turned to look at him, his blue eyes roaming over Shane’s face. “Better.”

With the scant seconds it took to sit up and mirror Ilya’s position against the headboard, Shane tried to steel himself. “I think it’s the same for me,” he said. His fingers fidgeted with the bedsheet and he chewed on his bottom lip before adding, “But, um. With women? I mean, it’s better with you than with women.”

He expected the confession to be sharp-edged and thick, perhaps lodge somewhere in his throat. And certainly it was difficult to push out, and if he paused and allowed himself to dwell on it too long, he feared what he might find. His skin was buzzing like he was on the edge of something monumental.

When he glanced over, he found Ilya regarding him with a little smile. It slowly faded, replaced with something more solemn. “You should not have sex you do not like. That is okay.”

“Is it?” 

It didn’t feel that way, with everyone’s expectations weighing on him. With how guys talked in the locker rooms. With how Samantha had looked at him, and Jessica before that. It felt like a defect. Like he was defective, and wrong, and misshapen. An imposter, wearing a mask to disguise himself as a normal hockey player, holding his breath in fear of the moment it would eventually be torn from him.

For a long moment, Ilya stared at him in silence. “You know, some people do not date,” he finally said. Shrugging, he continued, “Married to job, I think is phrase, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Yeah, that’s the phrase.”

“So, maybe this is you.” Ilya’s light, almost flippant tone was belied by his heavy gaze. His eyes flickered over Shane’s face before he said, very carefully, “Maybe it is me, too.”

That feeling returned, of standing on the edge of something monumental, only stronger now. His heartbeat thudded heavily under his skin. His fingertips tingled as his chest tightened, trapping his breath in his lungs.

Light-headed, vision spinning, he said, “You don’t think people would… talk?”

Ilya gave him a wry smile. Shane thought of the comment under one of Ilya’s old competition videos, and he remembered the bitter comments Ilya had made about hockey players back when they first met. 

“Does anyone… know? Back in Russia?” Shane hedged. His stomach soured; it felt wrong, almost like a lie, asking that kind of question without telling Ilya about what he had seen.

Ilya was quiet. He turned to face forward once again. Shane watched as his mouth twisted and his eyes moved restlessly.

“My father,” Ilya said eventually. His voice wavered, as if the stretch of silence had settled in his throat. “My brother. I think, maybe – my brother, he does lot of drugs. I think maybe sometimes he tells people when he is, ah. When he takes drugs. But I think… not so many people. Because is not good, for him and my father, to have, ah. This. In the family.”

Even for someone constantly communicating in a language that was not his own, Shane had never heard Ilya stumble over his words this much.

“And how do they, um… How do they know?” 

Shane still wondered, sometimes, if it was something other people could just sense in him. If a short lapse in concentration was all it would take to break the illusion and the only thing keeping everyone from knowing was Shane’s constant vigilance.

“My father, one day, he, ah.” Ilya’s voice was thick with something unfamiliar. Shane watched, heart pounding with a growing sense of dread, as Ilya turned his face away. “He found us. Was very bad.”

“Bad?” Shane repeated.

Ilya’s shoulders were suddenly shaking and Shane felt a jolt of alarm at an unmistakable wet, heaving sound.

“Ilya…” Shane reached out, gently settling a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Sorry,” Ilya gasped sharply, twisting his face even further away.

“No, no,” Shane murmured. He shifted until he was sitting facing Ilya’s side and pulled Ilya towards him, cradling his head against his throat. Ilya’s arms wound tightly around him, squeezing until Shane almost wheezed.

“Sorry,” Ilya said again, wet and heart-wrenching as he trembled. Shane shushed him, rubbing one hand up and down his back and stroking the back of his head. He pressed a kiss to Ilya’s crown.

“This is why I cannot compete now,” Ilya said, when the erratic rhythm of his breathing had settled somewhat.

“I thought… that was your ankle?”

Ilya’s laugh was wet and sharp against Shane’s throat. “Yes, is same problem.”

“I don’t understand,” Shane said.

“My father, he is very angry. I bring shame to him. I bring shame to Russia. I cannot – I won gold medal for world championship and I cannot represent Russia again, you see. So, he made sure I cannot.”

Ilya’s tone had shifted somewhere, from wavering and stilted to something flat and unaffected. Detached in a way that made Shane’s skin crawl.

“You mean he made you leave Russia?”

He felt Ilya’s head shaking against him. “No, Shane. Moy nevinnyy dorogoy.” Ilya shifted, sinking more heavily into Shane’s arms. Shane squeezed him tighter; tighter than he should have, perhaps, was Ilya not clinging to him just as desperately. “He, ah, beat me.”

For a suspended moment, Shane’s heart stilled. When it beat again, it was with a painful, too-quick thump-thump-thump against his ribs. 

“Shane.” 

He felt distantly aware of Ilya’s voice, like hearing the whirring of a dishwasher from another room. Background noise. 

The pressure around his chest tightened. It was Ilya, squeezing him harder. 

“Shane, is okay.”

“The fuck it is!” Shane exclaimed on a strangled, horrified breath. “He —” 

Shane felt sick. 

Ilya pulled away, slightly, at least as much as he could with both of them holding onto each other. With shaking hands, Shane cupped Ilya’s face. He dragged his thumbs through the wetness across Ilya’s cheeks as Ilya stared up at him. Ilya’s eyes were wide and red-rimmed, glistening. His mouth had fallen open, expression painfully unguarded. He turned his head to press a kiss to one of Shane’s thumbs before collapsing against Shane’s chest once again, tucking his face against Shane’s throat. Shane could only see the top of Ilya’s head, watching the gentle tremble of his curls with every shaky inhale. He wrapped his arms around Ilya once more.

“My coach said I will go to next Olympics,” Ilya continued. He made a small shrug, one-shouldered, and Shane had never hated the carefully affected casualness of that gesture so much. “So, my father, he beat me. And he —” Ilya’s breath hitched. It was an awful feeling, complete impotence, that all Shane could do was hold Ilya tight and rub his back. “He broke my ankle.”

“Fuck,” Shane gasped. His own eyes burned and he pressed his face into the crown of Ilya’s head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“We were stupid. Reckless. We liked danger. We were not very careful.”

“That doesn’t mean you deserved any of this.”

Ilya just hummed. More acknowledgment than anything approaching agreement. 

“And what about… the coach’s son? Did your dad —” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. It was unfathomable to him to think of one of his parents laying a hand on him. Even at their angriest, the thought of even worrying about something like that had never crossed his mind.

“He did not wait in line for his turn for beating,” Ilya said dryly. “No, he got away okay. I do not think my father told his father because, is like I said, it will bring shame to my father, too. But he left Russia, to be safe.”

“I’m so sorry,” Shane said again. Those words fell flat against the enormity of what Ilya had dealt with — was dealing with — but then he felt Ilya shudder, rub his nose against Shane’s collarbone, and squeeze him a little tighter, and Shane hoped it had helped, maybe, in some small way.

“I wanted to leave Russia very bad. This was not how I thought, but… I am here. And here, I meet very boring Canadian with awful, awful edges.”

Feeling the echo of a smile at the corner of his mouth, Shane corrected, “Outer edges.” As a hockey player, he used his inside edges a lot – it was his outer edge control that Ilya had mainly critiqued when Shane had first started taking lessons with him. He heard a quiet snort from Ilya; he thought it sounded amused. 

“I’m so sorry, Ilya,” he said again.

Ilya sighed. He turned to rest his cheek against Shane’s chest, allowing Shane to see his face. 

“Like I told you, I wanted to leave Russia already, just… not like this. If I leave in other way, maybe join team in America or Canada, I can still go home sometimes. Now, I cannot go home.” 

“But you can go visit without seeing your dad, can’t you?”

“Maybe, but… is not very safe.” He sighed again, louder this time. “Enough questions, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane agreed. Countless more gnawed at the edges of his mind, begging to be given a voice, but he pushed them aside. 

Eventually they settled back down against the mattress, Shane on his back and Ilya curled up against him with his head cushioned on Shane’s chest. Shane stroked his hair and listened to the soothing assurance of his breathing.

“Can you stay?” Shane said. “You don’t have to, I just —”

“Yes,” Ilya said. He pressed a kiss to Shane’s chest. “Yes, I will stay.”

Their fingers slowly found each other, tangling together over Shane’s stomach. They both held on with a tight grip that gradually loosened as Ilya’s breath slowed. 

Jetlag and the exhaustion of a few weeks on the road felt miles away as Shane laid wide awake, tormented by everything Ilya had shared. His fingers continued to stroke through Ilya’s hair, needing to feel Ilya not only against him and on top of him, but also beneath his touch.

Time was impossible to gauge; the world outside was just as dark as when Ilya had first arrived by the time Shane reached over to flick on his bedside lamp.

“Ilya,” he said. He watched, heart painfully tender as Ilya’s cheek scrunched up, trying to block out the burn of the light piercing his eyelids. “Ilya,” he said again, tugging at Ilya’s curls.

“Fuck?”

It took Shane a second to recognise the questioning lilt to Ilya’s tone, and another second after that to realise the implication. “No, Ilya, I have a plan.”

“Plan to fuck?”

Rolling his eyes, Shane said, “Come on. This is serious.”

“I am serious.” Ilya tilted his head, squinting up at Shane. “Should not pull my hair like this if you do not want me to fuck you.”

“Shut up,” he said, flustered. “Listen. Do you want to stay in Canada? For the long-term?”

Ilya blinked at him, syrup-slow. As the silence stretched out, Shane began to worry his answer might not be what Shane’s planning had accounted for. 

“Yes…” Ilya finally said, though it was stretched out, more like a question.

“Do you think you’ll want to pursue citizenship here?”

“Yes, because – is scary, yes? I worry, maybe one day my visa is not, ah…” Ilya was speaking slowly, stumbling a little over his words. He paused, bringing up a hand to rub at his forehead. “English is hard. Continued?”

“Renewed?” Shane said. “Yeah, that’s why I was thinking — look, my mom manages most of my contracts and sponsorships and stuff. She has a lot of connections and —”

Ilya made a noise as he rubbed at his eyes. “Shane, please. Slower.”

“Sorry,” Shane murmured. He repeated himself, clenching and unclenching his hands to redirect some of the anxiety that had had the words tumbling out of him. “And she knows a lot of lawyers,” he continued. “Not in this area, obviously, but I know she can ask around and put you in touch with a really good immigration lawyer.”

Another noise from Ilya. It was not an especially happy-sounding noise. “Shane, why your mother would do this for me? She does not owe me.”

“Why would she have to owe you something? It’s not difficult to just ask around,” Shane said. “Besides, you know my parents like you – you practically see them more than I do at this point!” Ilya and Shane’s parents having dinner together had quickly become a routine event, happening at least once a month with either Ilya making the drive to Ottawa or Shane’s parents visiting him if they were already in Montréal. Shane tried to join when he could but whenever he was unable to, he’d basically get a play-by-play through all the texts and photos he’d receive from them, anyways.

“Yes, you are very bad son,” Ilya said. “I agree with this.”

“Ugh, Ilya.” Shane huffed a small laugh before getting serious once again. “Listen. I’m not suggesting my mom foot the bill or anything.”

“‘Foot the bill’?” It was clear, from Ilya’s slow voice and the way his mouth carefully formed the words, that he was unfamiliar with that phrase.

“Pay for it,” Shane explained.

Ilya made a sharp, disapproving noise.

Thinking of Ilya’s small rental and the second-hand, nineties Mercedes he drove, Shane added, “We can find someone who’s affordable, of course. If that’s, um. A concern.” He tried to approach it delicately but from Ilya’s light huff, he thought he might have failed. “Even just a single consultation,” he continued, feeling a bubbling desperation building in his chest. “To get enough information to help guide you. And I’ll start researching, too, of course.”

Ilya was silent. The desperation was worsening, clawing at Shane’s lungs now.

“We can get some contacts for anything else you might need. Um.” Shane faltered, trying to think of how else he could help Ilya; how else he could prove his worth, show Ilya this was worth it. “Are you seeing a physiotherapist?”

At that, Ilya groaned. “Shane…”

“Because I know some really good ones. Better than whoever you’re seeing right now —”

“No.”

“No?” Shane repeated. “No, like, you don’t want to see someone else?”

“No, like…” Ilya sighed. “I do not see someone now.”

“What?” Shane pushed up, alarmed. “Why not? They could help you with your mobility, work on strengthening your muscles —”

“Shane.” Ilya’s expression was flat and voice sharp. “I am athlete like you. You think I do not know this?”

“Then why not?”

Ilya’s cheeks puffed up before he blew out a big, loud breath. “Is not easy, okay?” he said. “And I can give lessons no problem, so. Is fine.”

“It’s not —” Shane felt almost breathless with frustration. “Ilya, your quality of life could drastically improve!”

“Shane. I will not skate in competition again. So why does it matter?”

“You’re only twenty-one,” Shane said. “Imagine how much worse it will get with age!”

“You are not my —” Ilya cut off suddenly. His lips pursed tightly before he sniffed, expression returning to something more neutral.

“Ilya?” Shane prompted.

“This is too much,” Ilya muttered. “We talk so much today. I am so tired.”

“Okay,” Shane said. Gingerly, he shifted to lie down once again. His arms remained at his sides, fingers twitching as he debated whether Ilya would be receptive to his touch.

It was Ilya who made the first move, shoving at Shane’s shoulder to push him onto his back. Shane smiled as Ilya all but collapsed on top of him, leg hitched over Shane’s thighs and arm around Shane’s stomach.

Chapter End Notes

moy neterpelivyy kotenok — Yes, my impatient kitten
moy kotenok — My kitten
Moy nevinnyy dorogoy — My innocent darling

I don’t live in Montréal but according to my research, Côte-des-Neiges has a high number of Russian immigrants. (It also has a moderate/high concentration of underprivileged families so although Ilya has more stability now, I think it makes sense for when he first arrived in Canada — and he probably has limited desire to uproot himself again, even just to change neighbourhoods.)

The last two chapters are in rough states right now so it may be more like 2 weeks between updates! Alsoo my hand slipped and I think there's now going to be 13 chapters, lol.

My tumblr :)

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

Some new kink tags have been added, if that is something you want to check out first.

Your comments and support have really been encouraging me through a lot of writing struggles/self-doubt. So, thank you all again so much!!

Even for a Wednesday evening, the hallways were oddly quiet as Shane made his way through the arena. He reached the double-doors that led down to the rink, only to pause at a sign blocking the entrance.

Hey, it says there’s a special event? he sent to Ilya. Do I have the wrong time?

Come down.

But it says — was all he managed to type before he was interrupted by another text: Is okay, come.

“Alright,” Shane muttered, hitching his carry bag a little higher on his shoulder as he walked around the sign and pushed the doors open. 

Unlike their usual lessons, this time Ilya had told Shane to bring his ‘hockey stuff.’ Shane had tried asking why, but all Ilya had said was ‘good boys don’t ask questions.’ And as much as Shane hated to admit it, he wanted to be good for Ilya. Badly.

Besides, getting more information from an uncooperative Ilya was an impossible feat. Shane figured after years of his griping, Ilya had finally given up on trying to make him perfect his jumps and wanted to focus on giving hockey-specific feedback going forward.

Sitting in the locker room, a sourness settled in his stomach as he began to pull on his gear one piece at a time. It was less than a week since the Metros had been eliminated from the Playoffs once again, and Shane had not yet managed to reshape the crushing disappointment into fuel to push himself harder than ever before.

He hadn’t even wanted to come today but Ilya had been annoyingly persistent about it, even more so than when he had used to have to convince Shane to come over for a fuck.

On his way down to the rink, Shane frowned as he saw it was completely empty despite Ilya’s insistence that there wasn’t a special event after all. He began to wonder if he would have to explain to arena staff why he, an MLH star, had snuck into a clearly labelled, closed-off rink.

And then he stopped, the breath knocked from his lungs with a force similar to being checked into the boards skating thirty kilometres an hour.

There was a flash of a large, white number, as familiar as the back of Shane’s own hand yet nothing he himself had ever seen on the ice before, at least not in person. He had seen it countless times watching back game tapes, though. Resting just above the number, stretched across the back of Ilya’s shoulders, was his own name: HOLLANDER. 

Perhaps more than ever, Shane was thankful for his cup and compression pants because even utter confusion could not stem the blood rushing to his cock.

Because that was Ilya, Shane knew, even though his familiar curls were mostly smothered under a helmet and he was skating on the ice in short, almost jerking movements that lacked the fluidity and confident grace that were all Shane had ever known from him.

But it was not just the jersey and helmet, Shane realised as he approached the rink door; Ilya was covered head-to-toe in hockey gear. His shoulders were wider than usual, bulky with padding; his hands were covered in huge gloves; and instead of simple Adidas trackpants, he was wearing black hockey pants and long black hockey socks pulled over shin guards.

“What are you doing?” Shane called. A hockey stick was leaning against the boards. Ilya’s, he realised, as surreal as that was to think. He grabbed it on his way onto the ice.

Ilya’s usual dramatic spins were replaced with something slow and careful as he turned around to face Shane. “Today, you will teach me hockey,” he said.

“Why?”

Ilya grinned. He looked unbearably young, his features somehow softened under the large helmet. “Happy birthday, Hollander.”

“You —” Shane’s birthday was in two days, and he didn’t know how Ilya knew that. “Holy shit. Really?”

Shrugging, Ilya said, “Unless you are too bad of player to teach me.”

“Shut up. Of course I can teach you,” Shane said. The warmth crawling along his throat and across his cheeks was deepened by a flush of annoyance. His eyes drifted down to Ilya’s shoulders and settled on the Metros’ M across his chest. “But you can’t… you can’t wear that.” 

“Why not?” Ilya waved at himself. “I’m literally you.”

“It’s… cheating.” Which was true enough, because he wanted to grab Ilya’s jersey — his jersey — and drag Ilya off the ice. Or better yet, throw him onto the ice, and — 

Shane coughed. Like a gate slamming closed, he put a hard stop to those thoughts. “You’re trying to distract me,” he said.

Ilya’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Is jersey of my favourite player.”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck.”

“Don’t worry,” Ilya said. Shane opened his eyes to see Ilya taking small, careful strides towards him. “I will wear again tonight when I fuck you, hmm?”

“Fuck, yes,” Shane said. He glanced towards the exit, longing, for the first time in years, for this lesson to be over already. “Please.”

“Okay, come on, Mr. Hockey Man,” Ilya said. “Show me how you play.”

“Okay, uh.” It took Shane a moment to pull himself together. “Let’s start with stick handling.”

He held up the spare stick before passing it to Ilya. Ilya accepted it without looking, eyes focused on Shane as he said, “I think I know already how to handle your stick.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane groaned. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood flow. “How’s your balance?”

Ilya was standing perfectly, elegantly straight, grip on his stick carelessly light. “Good.”

There was a sharp thud of resin-covered carbon fibre colliding as Shane struck outward, easily knocking the stick out of Ilya’s hand with his own. 

“The fuck, Hollander!” Ilya said as he grabbed back his stick before it could fall to the ice.

“You need to be in control of your stick, Rozanov,” Shane said. “Put your weight on it.”

Ilya’s nose wrinkled as he placed the blade of the stick down onto the ice and reluctantly leaned forward against it. “Blyad!” he cursed as he stumbled. “Stupid fucking skates. Where is toe pick?”

Shane laughed. Unlike figure skates, hockey skates were curved on each end, meaning Ilya was going to have to relearn how to balance because he was probably used to resting his weight on his toes or heels. “Okay, come on, you big baby. I haven’t even brought out the puck yet.”

Ilya struggled through the drills Shane gave him with an unfamiliar lack of finesse to his movements, alternating between jerking and dragging the stick. But through a lot of stumbling and even more swearing, he began to adapt to both the skates and the stick. 

“This is boring,” he declared after a while, as if he had not nearly face-planted thirty seconds before. “I want to beat you now.”

“You’re not going to beat me.”

“Oh, you’re scared?”

Shaking his head, Shane smiled in disbelief. “I’m not gonna go easy on you,” he warned.

Ilya was utterly undeterred. “You know I like it rough,” he said, shooting Shane a wink.

Bent forward with his knees spread, Shane managed only a few glances up at Ilya; mostly, he stared down at the ice. So close like this, Ilya’s eyes were a sparkling, startling blue and something about all of this — Ilya, dressed in Shane’s colours, staring at him through the glint of a visor, wielding a stick in front of himself — made Shane ache with a confusing kind of longing. The clean, crisp air bit into his nostrils with each inhale as every exhale expanded in the space between them, mingling and becoming one with Ilya’s breath.

It felt like an entirely new intimacy on the ice, distinct from lessons over the years where Ilya had whispered in his ears, or groped at his thighs, or flattened a hand dangerously low on his pelvis to adjust the angle of his hips.

“Okay, so during a normal face-off,” Shane began to explain. “A linesman would drop the puck for us and we’d see who got it first. But since it’s just the two of us —” 

He dropped the puck and opened his mouth to give them a countdown. Ilya drove his stick forward, stealing the puck and immediately taking off. Mere seconds brought Shane to his side and he slid his stick out, claiming the puck back with ease.

“No, you cheater!” Ilya shouted as Shane pivoted and began to skate down the other end of the rink. “This is my goal!”

“Should’ve tried harder!” Shane called over his shoulder.

“Blyad!” Ilya cursed. “Why is so hard to — to go forward?”

There was no net set up but Shane used the centre of the goal line as an approximation and, with a sharp swing of his arm, shot the puck hard against the boards.

“Asshole!” Ilya said just before colliding against Shane.

With a small grunt, Shane absorbed Ilya’s weight. As Ilya’s hands grasped at the back of his jersey, thick and a little fumbling through the gloves, he realised the collision might have more to do with Ilya’s struggle to cleanly stop without toe picks than a show of frustration. He stayed still, tamping down an instinct to immediately shrug his opponent off him. 

“Told you I wasn’t gonna go easy on you,” he said. “And you can’t push someone from behind.”

“Oh, what, you will tell on me?” Ilya said as he righted himself, allowing Shane to skate forward and retrieve the puck. 

“Yeah,” Shane said. “You’ll get the penalty box.”

“Oooh, not box! I’m so scared.”

Shane rolled his eyes as he flicked his wrist, tossing the puck up towards Ilya. Ilya’s stick shot out, catching the puck with a speed that already showed impressive progress. 

“I’ve never been in the penalty box, actually,” he shared.

“Of course not,” said Ilya. “Because you are good boy.”

“I’m going to count us down, okay?” Shane said, hovering the puck between them. “No cheating this time.”

“You are telling me?” Ilya said, brows raised beneath his visor. 

As soon as it hit the ice, Ilya darted forward and, once again, stole the puck. Shane let him have it for a while this time, skating behind him at a semi-sedate pace, enjoying the view as Ilya practiced careful cross-overs to guard against Shane’s half-hearted attempts to grab the puck from him. Shane used this to gradually corral Ilya towards the boards and, when Ilya was close enough, he burst forward and slammed into him.

A solid thud as Ilya hit the boards shoulder-first. It was at a slower speed than a game hit would usually be and Shane had limited the propulsion from his legs, but Ilya’s groan rang loud and clear in Shane’s ear.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, a hand hovering worriedly at Ilya’s side. “Was that too hard?”

There was a long stream of Russian curses before Ilya turned around with a bright, face-splitting grin. “Fuck, Shane, that was hottest thing probably ever.”

Shane grinned back at him. “Maybe if you can keep up, you can check me, next time,” he said before pivoting on his blades and skating off.

There was a pause, then — “Fucker!” as Ilya realised Shane had stolen the puck back, as well. The suggestion had been a joke, teasing and nothing more, yet the thought of Ilya body-checking him burrowed in Shane’s mind immediately, digging deep enough to almost drown out the heated drive of competition. The open expanse of the rink stretched out all around them, an ample opportunity for all sorts of manoeuvres Shane never got to show Ilya during their lessons, yet he found himself hugging the boards. He wanted to make sure Ilya had a well-rounded hockey experience, of course, and that meant giving Ilya plenty of openings to check him.

When it finally came, it was an illegal check, with Ilya’s forearm a hard line across Shane’s back. As the air knocked from his lungs, his veins were flooded with a kind of thrill unlike anything he had felt during a game. He grinned against the glass, grateful there were no spectators to see. Especially as Ilya pushed harder, his elbow digging into Shane’s ribs, making Shane’s cock throb in his cup.

The first time Ilya actually neared Shane’s goal line, Shane let him get within shooting range —  quite close to the line, given the limits of his shot velocity and accuracy — before stealing the puck back. 

He had barely even turned, with a grin so wide his cheeks ached, when he heard a sharp, pained hiss. Freezing instantly, he looked over to Ilya who was wobbling on his skates, mouth twisted into a grimace.

“You good?” Shane asked.

“Yes, is just… fuck.” Ilya leaned heavily on his stick, favouring his right leg. “Hockey boots are so loose. My ankles —” He made a wobbly motion with his hand.

“Shit,” Shane said, skating closer. “Are you okay? Is your ankle —”

Ilya’s stick thrust out, curving across the ice to slide under Shane’s blade and with a quick flick of his wrist, he shot the puck forward. It skidded across the goal line and Ilya whooped, raising his stick above his head in celebration. 

“I win!”

Shane glanced down repeatedly at Ilya’s right foot but from what he could tell, Ilya’s ankle seemed perfectly fine. “That’s your first goal. I’m still winning,” he pointed out, when he recovered from his initial shock. “And what the fuck? I was actually worried!”

“Is not total lie,” Ilya said, still smiling as he gave a half-shrug. “Boot is very loose, yes. Very light, too, even though it is so… big.” Looking down at his feet, Ilya knocked his stick against the hard shell of his left boot. “But I tie laces very, very tight and I’m wearing special brace today.”

“You fucking asshole,” was all Shane said. It was hardly surprising that Ilya would play dirty, but to go so far as to fake aggravating his career-ending injury just to score a goal? To let Shane panic like that, even for only a few seconds? “You can’t just…”

Before he could even finish his thought, Ilya blew a raspberry at him and skated off, taking the puck with him.

“You know, if you were a hockey player, you’d have a nickname,” Shane said some hours later as they sat side-by-side on the bench. “Roz or Rozy, I think.”

Ilya was bent over and scowling at his boots, apparently annoyed that he had to loosen the laces all the way down his ankle instead of simply unhooking them. Shane had already removed his boots and mesh socks, and was working on his shin guards. 

“So what is your little nickname, Mr. Hockey Man?” Ilya asked.

“Holly, usually,” Shane said. “Sometimes the guys call me ‘Hollywood,’ though.”

“Hollywood,” Ilya repeated, looking up at Shane with a small curve at the corner of his mouth. “Why, because you are pretty?”

“No, it’s just —” No matter how many times Ilya said something like that, Shane never failed to blush. “It’s just a nickname, Ilya.”

Ilya leaned over and knocked his shoulder into Shane’s knee. “But you are pretty.”

“Shut up,” Shane muttered. “It’s my birthday.”

“Mm, yes. And you are very pretty birthday boy. Did you like your present?”

“It was… great, Ilya,” Shane said earnestly. “Amazing. I really had a great time with you today.”

Ilya stared at him for a long moment before turning back to his other boot with a shrug. “Well, is not over yet. Still have to fuck you.”

“‘Have to,’” Shane repeated flatly.

“Yes, I think is — contract obligation,” Ilya said, enunciating carefully. A phrase like that was a sure sign he’d been spending a lot of time with Yuna. Among other things, she was determined to teach him his rights as an employee in Canada, though he was insistent that he was ‘just happy to be in Canada’ and did ‘not want to rock the boat.’ And that was another phrase newly added to Ilya’s repertoire; Shane was pretty sure he had picked it up from David during a family game night when David, the only non-hyper-competitive one among the four of them, had desperately tried to play peace-maker.

“Well, as your lawyer,” Shane said, biting down a smile. “I must recommend you fulfill your contractual obligations to the best of your abilities.”

“Oh, I will do very good job,” Ilya said.

“Good.”

Shane pushed to stand. He tugged off his jersey, carefully folded it, removed his elbow pads and shoulder pads, and put them all into his carry bag along with his gloves, mesh socks, and skates. Feeling a little unsure of himself, he hovered in front of Ilya awkwardly. “I’ll, um, meet you back at my place?”

Ilya paused in what appeared to be a battle with his shin pads. Taking in Shane’s state of partial undress, his initial leer flattened into a narrow-eyed look. “You will not shower here?”

Despite the moisture-wicking layers, Shane’s clothes were already sticky with cooling sweat, and his skin erupted with phantom itches at just the thought of driving home like this. But the locker room was too dangerous for them to be in at the same time, especially if Shane had to watch Ilya strip off hockey equipment. It was better this way. Shane did not need to celebrate by being arrested for public indecency two days before his twenty-second birthday.

“No, you should… go to the locker room and shower. Alone.”

“You don’t want to shower? You?” Ilya said incredulously.

“I —” Shane sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tugging sharply at the ends. “I’m ten seconds from telling you to walk out of here with all that equipment on, okay.”

“Shane, you have hockey fetish?” Ilya plucked at his jersey and added, “Or just fetish for yourself?”

Shane was determined to ignore that question. So, it was with extremely unfortunate timing that he had to ask, “The jersey, is it…?”

Ilya leaned back on his hands with a smug look. “Don’t worry, Shane, is mine. Not rental.”

“Thank fuck.”

It didn’t really get old, the thrill of hearing the beeps of the front door’s electronic keypad followed by the whirling lock as Ilya let himself into Shane’s apartment. 

Shane had worried it would feel weird, or maybe wrong, the first time. He had told himself sharing the code was okay because he could just change it after Ilya left — Ilya wouldn’t even have to know, because he could always change it back again right before inviting Ilya over again. 

Only Shane never ended up changing the code, even temporarily. Because it had been exhilaration, not anxiety, that had had Shane’s heart pounding that first time he listened to Ilya let himself in, and every time since. 

Today, Ilya barely made it through the door before Shane was on him, tugging him by the jersey — one hand fisting the white patch of sleeve and the other the fleur-de-lis at the centre of Ilya’s chest — into a frenzied kiss. A wordless and breathless stumble carried them up the stairs to Shane’s bedroom.

Shane’s shirt was already pulled up over his head, ready to be tossed blindly across the room without a single care, when Ilya said, “Wait.”

“What is it?” Shane said, slightly muffled through the fabric. A blunt pressure against his side had him sucking in a sharp breath.

“Turn around.”

“Ilya, what’re you —”

“Turn around, Shane.”

Shane turned around, shucking his shirt off along the way. Ilya’s hands were hot on his back in an instant, running up along his spine before finding a tender spot on his left ribcage.

“These marks… they are new?”

“Yeah, of course,” Shane said. He looked down at his side, where Ilya had first prodded, and noticed a red welt that promised to darken into a bruise in the coming days. 

“They are from today?”

The words were breathed against the back of Shane’s neck. A shiver ran through him, chilling his skin except those splotches of soon-to-be bruises, which instead bloomed with heat. 

There was a warm spot of pressure on Shane’s shoulder; Ilya’s forehead. His hands came together on Shane’s back, thumb to thumb and forefinger to forefinger, making a large circle around that particular spot on Shane’s ribcage. It was, Shane knew with an intimate thrill, exactly where Ilya’s elbow had hit him.

“You always have bruises, but… never like this. Never mine.”

“Fuck me,” Shane said, head tipping back and eyes falling closed. Ilya’s arms slipped around his torso and as much as Shane loved it, he longed for Ilya’s attention to recentre on that tender spot. He wondered what the pain would feel like if Ilya were to dig his thumb into it.

“How do you want me?” Ilya asked, decorating Shane’s throat with soft kisses as his hands soothed up and down Shane’s stomach.

Shane groaned. He wanted — so much. He wanted it hard and fast, on his knees, until he couldn’t even hold himself up on his elbows. But he needed to watch Ilya fuck him in his own jersey. He needed to fist that familiar blue, see it slipping off Ilya’s shoulder; to pull it taut across Ilya’s back so he could look over Ilya’s shoulder and see his own name there.

Ilya tugged Shane back to face him and pushed him down onto the bed. “I think like this,” he said, because he perceived so much without Shane needing to speak.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed, pulling Ilya right down with him. “But no fucking around today.”

Ilya snorted. “I think is all we are doing, no?”

“I mean I want you now,” Shane said. He grabbed the bottle of lubricant and condom wrapper he had already placed on his bed while waiting for Ilya to get here, and shoved them at Ilya’s chest. “No prep. I need you.”

Despite the clear instructions, Ilya stared down at him without moving. He didn’t even move to grab the lubricant and condom until Shane shook them pointedly. “You are like rusalka,” he said. “And you will kill me like one, too.”

“Yeah, I will,” Shane said, even though he had no idea what Ilya was talking about. “If you don’t get your dick in me in the next ten seconds.”

Ilya huffed a laugh but was quick to strip down, save for the jersey, and roll on the condom. Shane yanked off the rest of his own clothes and laid back with his legs spread and knees bent, enjoying the pale skin of Ilya’s throat against the neckline of his jersey.

“Happy birthday,” Ilya said as he first pushed inside Shane, and Shane would have sworn at him, or smacked his shoulder, seeing his self-satisfied grin, as if he thought this was the greatest birthday present Shane had have ever received (it was), but Shane was too busy tipping his head back on a throaty moan at the glorious burning stretch.

“Fuck, yes,” Shane said, twisting his legs around Ilya’s back to force him closer. He eagerly accepted a long moment of sloppy kisses before he had to push Ilya’s head away. One arm slung along Ilya’s back held Ilya flush against him as he used his other arm to prop himself up. He watched, captivated, as the large 24 slid up and down Ilya’s back with each thrust. Across Ilya’s shoulders, Shane’s name crumpled and shifted with each flex of his muscles.

The throbbing desperation between Shane’s legs blurred out any discomfort as Ilya fully sank into him. There was no pause to check-in or allow for adjustment; Ilya was pounding into him in an instant, and Shane fell back against the mattress.

“Fuck,” he moaned, luxuriating, for a moment, in the simple, overwhelming sensation of Illya’s body slamming against his. Then he grabbed Ilya’s face and pulled him in for a kiss. 

It was a disaster; Ilya wouldn’t stop smiling, annoyingly, so Shane was left to bite at his lips and lick between his teeth.

“Fuck, this is good,” Shane said, grabbing fistfuls of his jersey and using it to yank Ilya into him harder and faster. “But, I-I want —”

Ilya was already nodding. He pulled out, causing Shane to keen, but there was barely any time to mourn because Ilya pushed him over, onto his stomach and then up onto his knees, and drove right back into him.

“Yes,” Shane sighed on a long, drawn-out breath.

Against his back was the drag of the embroidered Metros logo, and if he closed his eyes, he swore he could feel his individual nerve-endings lighting up at each brush of contact. Ilya shifted closer, his chest firmer against Shane’s back, allowing his hips to slam into Shane more hurriedly. His left hand planted on the bed just beside Shane’s head.

Seeing that flash of a blue sleeve, Shane dropped his right shoulder into the mattress so he could stretch across and cling to it with both hands. He curled around it as much as he could, pressing his face into the back of Ilya’s hand, giving into a tremulous whimper that had been building in his throat.

Ilya’s other hand slammed down on Shane’s back and, slipping against his slick skin, slid dangerously close to the welt on Shane’s ribs.

“Please,” Shane gasped out immediately and unthinkingly.

Ilya’s hips stuttered for a moment, maybe readjusting his angle, because the next time he pressed in, Shane gasped. And then his fingers sank into that tender, red spot, firm at first and turning crueler as Shane moaned. 

“Yes, yes, fuck,” he cried out. He could feel his cock spasm, probably dripping precome all over the bedding. Ilya’s hand was wet underneath his cheek. 

“You’re mine,” Ilya said. His fingers were replaced with his palm, pressing down against Shane’s ribs until his chest was flat against the bed. The whole left side of Shane’s back alighted with a throbbing so intense, it seemed to drown out his own heartbeat. 

“Yours,” Shane said back, panting open-mouthed against Ilya's hand. “Don't stop. I'm gonna come, but you can't — please.”

The thought of Ilya stopping, or even just slowing down to ease Shane through his orgasm, was gut-wrenching. He could have cried. He might have cried, actually, because his throat was tight and his breaths hitching.

“Shane,” Ilya gasped. His hand abandoned the bruise on Shane's back in favour of grabbing his hip and shoving Shane back against him to rut furiously into Shane's ass.

As Shane’s orgasm tore through him, glorious and devastating, his teeth sank into Ilya’s hand. They had rules about that — Shane didn't allow Ilya to leave any marks on him anywhere, except during the two weeks he had off every year; for Ilya, the only places off-limits were where clients might see, namely his throat and, well, hands.

But Shane couldn't help it. His mouth ached, and Ilya hadn't fucked his mouth in so long, and even though Ilya cursed loudly, he also lifted his hand to press his own flesh harder into Shane's mouth and teeth.

Ilya came with snarled curses and a hand clutching at Shane's shoulder. He slumped down, forehead resting against Shane’s shoulder as he caught his breath. When Shane realised his teeth were still sunk into Ilya’s hand and that meant he would have to let go, his face crumpled against a sudden burning in his eyes.

Soothing Russian was murmured into his ear as Ilya slowly eased his hand from Shane's mouth. He didn’t go far, though; his hand smoothed over Shane’s mouth and chin and cheeks. Shane’s lips curled as he felt the wetness of his skin under Ilya’s fingers.

“Shower now, okay?” Ilya said.

Shane nodded, though he had never wanted anything less.

In the shower, he was a leaden weight against Ilya. He could feel the pressure of the water beating down on him, but the only indication of the temperature was cloying steam pressing against his face and clouding his vision.

Then they were back in bed, and Shane supposed Ilya’s bare skin against him was a fair substitute for his jersey. His arms and legs managed to overcome insurmountable fatigue to wrap around Ilya, yet it was not enough to quiet a hunger still festering inside him ever since Ilya had pulled out of him.

Into the warm, safe crook of Ilya’s throat, Shane asked, “Could you grab another condom?”

There was a pause. “Shane, I —” Ilya’s breath ruffled Shane’s hair. “You have killed me. I am dead. I can’t —”

“No, I just…” Shane sighed, taking a moment to just breathe Ilya, and this moment, in. “Do you think we could just sleep like that?”

Another pause, then Ilya said something Shane didn’t understand. “What?” he asked.

Ilya half-laughed, and Shane could feel him shaking his head. “Now I wonder if it is your birthday or mine.”

It meant, unfortunately, that Ilya had to move away, even if only for a moment, and Shane wrapped his arms around himself. Then Ilya was back, settling behind Shane this time, spreading Shane’s legs open. He worked himself inside much slower.

“Like this?” Ilya said, when he was draped along Shane’s back.

Shane hummed happily and reached up, pulling Ilya’s arm around him.

He was halfway to sleep when he was struck by a niggling thought: he still didn’t know how Ilya knew his birthday. They had never talked birthdays before; it would have never crossed Shane’s mind because up until recently, this had been nothing more than fucking — Shane had thought for so long that it couldn’t be more than fucking.

But even as things had changed between them, Shane hadn’t thought to share that kind of personal detail, or ask for Ilya’s. Birthdays didn’t hold a lot of importance to him, and it didn’t help that his fell right in the middle of the Playoffs; he had spent the last three years grappling with burning frustration and disappointment before his birthday even arrived because each year, he hadn’t been enough to get the Metros to the end. They had come their farthest yet, this year, but that meant little to Shane.

He wanted to know how Ilya knew his birthday. But far more importantly, he wanted to know —

“When’s your birthday?”

Ilya lifted his head, causing Shane to shiver as a flood of cool air rushed against the exposed skin of throat. Ilya made up for it with a dozen kisses pressed to Shane’s face.

“June fifteenth,” he said.

“June fifteenth,” Shane repeated, determined to commit it to memory.

The nostalgic warmth of a lifetime of memories filled Shane as he drove up the familiar, winding driveway in Lanaudière. He glanced over to his right, smiling a little, excited to take in Ilya’s initial reaction.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, seeing Ilya’s tightly-pulled brows.

“This is not cottage,” Ilya said, eyes wide as stared ahead. “No, I searched this word. Is… is little house. ‘Cozy,’ it said. This is not cozy, Shane.”

Shane laughed as he pulled the car into park. “You’re thinking of a cabin, Ilya.”

“Oh, so whole internet is lying now?” Ilya said. He was still staring at the cottage with a look that almost seemed apprehensive, but Shane just rolled his eyes and got out.

He popped open the trunk and had pulled out their overnight bags along with a third, smaller bag by the time Ilya was just getting out of the car.

“Shane, I can carry my own bag,” Ilya said. 

“I’ve got it!” Shane said, easily sidestepping Ilya’s outreached hand.

“You are very annoying,” Ilya muttered, because he was ungrateful like that. He used his freedom to dart forward and cross to Shane’s other side where, perpetually nosey, he pointed at the tote bag tucked securely under Shane’s right shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Toiletries,” Shane said, a little quickly. He looked away as Ilya started to smirk.

“Toiletres,” Ilya repeated back, slowly, his smile growing.

“It means —”

“I know what it means,” Ilya said. “You brought sexy things for us to use, yes?”

“What? We’re not —” Shane blanched, glancing at the front door to make sure his parents hadn't magically appeared. Stepping closer to Ilya, he hissed, “Ilya, we’re not having sex at my parents’ cottage, okay?”

Ilya’s bottom lip jutted out in a ridiculous and not at all persuasive pout. “Shane, it’s my special day,” he said.

Through the fabric of Shane’s shirt, the straps of the tote bit into his skin. He swallowed, pressing his arm a little tighter against the box he could feel resting just inside. Too worried Ilya might see, he hadn’t had time to check to make sure the box hadn’t suffered any damage on the drive up. 

At least he was spared from having to formulate some kind of response as the door swung open.

“Boys!” David yelled, one arm slung around Yuna’s back as he waved them toward the house. “How was the drive?”

“Good,” Shane said at the same time Ilya said, “Boring.” Ilya huffed and added, “Shane did not drive over one hundred.”

“But that’s the speed limit?” David said.

“Yes. Exactly.”

Yuna crossed her arms, her warm smile fading into a narrow-eyed look. “I’m sure you’re not suggesting my son should put both your lives at risk by speeding, right, Ilya?”

“Of course not, Yuna,” Ilya said, head bent in a display that, for him, was as close to shame-faced as it got. “Never.”

“Mhm,” she said, clearly unconvinced even as she opened her arms to accept Ilya’s cheek kisses. Then David held his arms out for a hug and it was like second-nature by now, the way Shane’s eyes fell to Ilya’s shoulders. His hand itched with the urge to place a comforting hand on Ilya’s back but today, the tension in Ilya’s shoulders was only fleeting. 

“Happy birthday,” David said, giving Ilya’s back a few friendly slaps.

Ilya pulled back, glancing between David and Yuna before shooting a displeased look over his shoulder at Shane. “He told you?”

Shane snorted as he stepped up to the front door. “What, did you think we invited you over on your birthday just by coincidence?” he said.

“You did not invite me,” Ilya said. “David and Yuna invite me. Then I said they can also invite you, because you will be too sad all alone.”

Shane gave his parents each a one-armed hug, trying not to knock the duffel bags into them while also keeping the tote bag secured. “What, like a pity invite?” he said. Glancing over at Ilya, he watched Ilya’s small, knowing smile.

“Yes. Like pity invite,” Ilya said.

“Alright, you two,” Yuna said, mildly chiding. “No one got a pity invite. We wanted both of you here equally.”

“So, that’s what we call burned,” Shane said. He poked at the charred disk before sliding the spatula underneath it and lifting it to the warming rack to be disposed of later. 

“Soft Canadian,” Ilya scoffed. “That is perfectly good burger.”

“It’s basically coal, Ilya. That’s why you have to keep your eye on it.”

It was Shane’s idea to leave Ilya in charge of a single patty — a practice run. Clearly Ilya could not be trusted, as Shane had predicted, and Shane would have to remain here at the grill to watch over him. 

He passed the spatula back over to Ilya, shivering at the brush of Ilya’s fingers against his, in order to pull up the bag of remaining patties and line them on the grill. But instead of keeping an eye on them, Ilya gave him a look. 

“Maybe if you were not wearing tiny little shorts —”

The patio door slid open, causing Shane to jump a little. 

“Didn’t mean to startle you!” David called out as he stepped onto the deck. 

Shane and Ilya were already standing at least a foot apart but Shane took a step to the side just in case. He spared his shorts a quick downward glance — dark blue linen-blend with a hem that rested a few inches above his mid-thigh. Perfectly appropriate for the hot weather, he felt, and certainly not tiny. 

David walked over to the grill, standing between them as he inspected the burgers. “Still getting the hang of it, huh, Ilya?” he said, nodding at the warming rack.

Ilya stared ahead, shoulders lifted ever so slightly towards his ears. “Is okay, I will eat it,” he said quietly.

“Don’t worry about it! There’s plenty to go around, son,” David said. He turned to head back inside, clapping Ilya on the back and shooting Shane a smile on the way.

Shane waited until the door closed behind David before he glanced over at Ilya. His eyes widened a bit in alarm seeing a small quiver run across Ilya’s mouth. Ilya quickly ducked his head, turning away as he rubbed at his ear a few times.

The splat and sizzle of burning fat soon drew Shane’s attention back to the grill. “Ilya, you have to flip them,” he said, because he didn’t think Ilya could handle being responsible for any more burned food. 

Ilya still didn’t move. As the smoke from the grill darkened, Shane reached over and gently pried the spatula from Ilya’s hand. Flipping the first burger, he sighed in quiet relief at the sight of perfectly cooked meat with only a few blackened lines left behind by the grate.

“He called me son,” Ilya finally said. 

“Yeah.”

“But I…” Ilya frowned. “I burned the fucking burger.”

Shane continued down the line, flipping the burgers one at a time and chewing his lip as he considered how to respond. “So you admit you burned it?” he said finally.

Ilya’s laugh came out half-choked. “You are asshole,” he said, shoving at Shane’s shoulder. Shane just laughed.

“Come on.” 

Ilya was frozen on the back deck, looking a bit like a startled fawn. Shane crossed his arms against the urge to grab his hand and tug him like a recalcitrant child over to where Yuna and David sat with a warm, roaring pitfire and a small pile of gifts. 

“If you don’t hurry up, they’ll start singing, too.”

“Singing?” Ilya said, alarmed.

“Yes, so just —” Shane groaned, reaching out to grab Ilya’s sleeve — that seemed safe, at least — 

and physically pull him forward. “C’mon!”

The heat of the fire and its familiar, crackling pops were welcome against the cool night air as Shane settled on the small sofa. It was all that was left, Yuna and David having taken a wicker chair each. He took great care to sit at one end, pressed as tightly against the armrest as he could, which was almost entirely negated as Ilya plopped down with far less care, his knee falling dangerously close to Shane’s.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road!” David said, giving a single clap of his hands before he stood up to grab one of the gifts. He handed it over to Ilya, who accepted it with slow, almost hesitant hands.

“On the road?” Ilya said, looking to Shane. 

“It just means let’s get started.”

“Ah.” Ilya turned back to the gift in his hands. “This is too big,” he said.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing too exciting,” David said, waving off Ilya’s concern as he sat back down.

Ilya continued to stare at the gift. “Thank you.”

“I mean, you’re welcome,” David said with a laugh. “But you should probably open it first, kiddo.”

Ilya stilled, eyes widening as he glanced over at David. By the time he finally began to move, his cheeks were ruddy from the heat of the fire. There was no delicacy or reason to his method of unwrapping, tearing at the paper in seemingly random strips and slowly revealing what looked to be a picture. At first there was a deep blue sky with pink- and purple-tinged clouds, then the familiar green and copper roofs of the Centre Block and Library of Parliament, and below that, lush green trees lining the sloping hill as it gave way to the inky black-blue waters of the Ottawa River. At the bottom of the box, it said, 1,000 pieces.

“This is Ottawa. A puzzle of Ottawa,” Ilya said as plucked off a final few scraps of wrapping paper. Shane quickly grabbed the scraps before they could be blown away to litter the greenery all around them.

“You seem to enjoy doing them sometimes when you visit us,” David said. “So, I thought it might be time you had one of your own.”

Ilya dragged a finger along the shimmering orange-yellow streetlights reflected along the river’s surface. “Yes, very much. Thank you, David. This is…” Ilya swallowed. “Thank you very much."

Yuna was next. “This isn’t really a gift, but… well,” she said, pausing a second before handing it over. “You’ll see.”

Shane’s breath caught in his throat; there was something particularly striking in that moment, as Ilya stared up at Yuna with his eyes wide and mouth slightly open. The flickering light of the fire danced across his features, highlighting his heavy brow and the ridge of his nose.

Yuna smiled, a little confused, when Ilya still did not reach up to grab the gift from her.

“Yuna, I… I did not expect this,” Ilya said.

“Don’t be silly — it’s your birthday!” Yuna said, all but pushing the gift into his hands. “Now, go on!”

This time, the wrapping paper was peeled back with a bit more care. Shane soon understood why — inside was a soft-cover book, too delicate to risk being torn at. Four books actually, it turned out, as Ilya fanned them all out before himself. Each had a red-and-white cover decorated with a Canadian flag.

“Yuna’s gifts tend to be a bit more, uh, practical,” David explained as Ilya stared at the books in silence, flickering eyes reading the titles over and over and over again. CELPIP Speaking, CELPIP Listening, CELPIP Reading, CELPIP Writing.

“Obviously your English is very good, Ilya,” Yuna said. “But this way, we can optimise your application by getting as many points as possible!”

Shane leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he gave Yuna a look. “Mom, he’s going to do fine.” 

“He’s going to do better than fine,” Yuna said, and Shane quietly groaned, because Yuna’s much-appreciated assistance with helping Ilya towards citizenship came with, well, a lot of pressure that was all too familiar to Shane. “He can score up to twenty-four points for the language test, which will really bolster his application!”

The first step to citizenship was Permanent Residency, and the first step to Permanent Residency was submitting an immigration application. And that was already complicated — without knowing French, Ilya could not apply for Québec’s own immigration system. He had to apply for Express Entry instead, which covered the rest of Canada, and that meant he had to plan to live outside of Québec to be accepted.

Glimmering streaks of orange-yellow drew Shane’s gaze back to the puzzle box at Ilya’s side, and he stared at the lights caught in a moment in time as they danced across the Ottawa River. It was the most logical option for Ilya — to move to Ottawa, and establish a new roster of clientele there. But Shane didn’t like to think about it too much, what that kind of distance would mean; it was already difficult for them to see each other now, living in the same city.

“Thank you very much, Yuna,” Ilya said. “I am very grateful for you. I will score all the points.”

The festering anxiety about Ilya’s immigration application only heightened Shane’s nervousness as he stood to grab the final gift. Yuna had recommended him a gift-wrapping service, which had transformed a plain, black box into a shimmery-gold package finished with an almost obnoxiously large red bow.

“I did my research,” he said as he handed the gift over. The words were almost expelled against his will from how tightly his stomach was clenched. “But if it’s not what you want, we can go back.”

The bow unravelled with little more than a firm tug, leaving only thin paper that Ilya easily tore through. Inside was a long, black box enclosed in a cardboard sleeve. The brand’s name was printed across the top of the sleeve in swooping white lettering, and Ilya stilled immediately.

It was a difficult reaction to discern, made even more difficult with Ilya’s downward gaze and blank expression. Shane watched as Ilya’s throat bobbed. 

“Shane,” Ilya finally said. His fingers tightened, knuckles turning bloodless-white though the box remained undented under his grip. “No, Shane.”

Shane’s stomach dropped. “Is it… the wrong brand?”

“No, is… is perfect brand.”

“Then… that’s good, right?”

“I.” Ilya let out a breath — not quite sharp, but Shane’s hands twisted nervously. “I did not even wear such nice blades when I won gold. I am just coach, now. Is too much.”

“You’re not ‘just’ anything, Ilya. You’re a brilliant coach.”

The light of the fire seemed to glisten a little more brightly in Ilya’s eyes before he turned his head to the side. Shane swallowed, wishing he could read the back of Ilya’s head. When Ilya finally turned back, his eyes were a little red. 

“Thank you, Shane,” he said, so soft and sincere that Shane physically ached with the inability to wrap his arms around him.

“Yeah, um,” Shane said, throat dry. “Of course.”

“Well… can we see it, at least?” David said.

Ilya slowly slid the inner box outside of its protective sleeve and eased the lid open. Carefully unfolding the waxy-looking paper inside, he pulled out one of the blades. It was a pristine, gleaming silver with the jagged teeth of a toe pick, and darker silver toe and heel plates. For a long moment, he simply held it in his hands, barely allowing his thumbs to brush along the edge.

“Oh, these are gorgeous!” Yuna said when Ilya eventually handed the blade over to her. She lifted it up and down, head tilted curiously. “Not as heavy as I would have expected.”

“It’s the carbon-fibre,” Shane explained, pointing at the darker silver of the toe and heel plates. “They’re significantly lighter than other blades.” To Ilya, a little quieter, he said, “I thought it would help with… you know.”

Ilya was already staring at him, brows slightly raised and plush, annoyingly kissable lips parted. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I think probably, it will help a lot.”

David let out a low whistle as Yuna passed him the blade. “John Wilson,” he read out. “Gold Seal Revolution.”

The blade was handed back to Ilya, who folded the paper very carefully around it before placing it back in the box. “Bol'shoye spasibo, moy dorogoy,” he said. Shane only understood the first part. Thank you very much. “This is very special gift.”

With the presents finished, Shane focused his attention on carefully collecting and folding all the remaining wrapping paper. It gave him something to do with his hands; if he let them rest at his sides, he feared he was at great risk of somehow accidentally brushing against Ilya’s hand or thigh.

“Now for the best part of the night,” David said, brandishing a bag with familiar metal sticks protruding from the top. “S’mores!”

“S’mores?” Ilya repeated, sounding as dubious as the name deserved.

“You’ve never had s’mores?” Shane said.

“No, I’ve never had your weird Canadian…” He trailed off, seeming unsure of what word to even use as David passed a metal stick to Yuna and two over to Shane. “You will torture me now?”

“No, no,” Yuna said, laughing. “S’mores are a treat! Graham crackers, chocolate, and roasted marshmallows.”

Ilya frowned, eyeing the bag of marshmallows David tossed over with great suspicion.

“Whatever you do, don’t listen to Shane,” David said, plopping his first marshmallow onto the U-shaped end of his stick. “He’ll try to convince you that the best marshmallow is only lightly roasted, which is false.”

“Some of us are civilised and don’t like eating charcoal,” Yuna said, because she and Shane were in agreement on this.

Shane explained how to prepare the two pieces of graham crackers and one piece of chocolate, roast the marshmallow, then pull the marshmallow directly off the stick between the graham crackers. He wasn’t even finished talking when Ilya nodded and held out a hand. 

“Give me stick.”

Ilya placed his marshmallow a little too close to the edge of the stick, and Shane had to explain it was likely to fall off into the fire like that. Once it was secured and Shane gave the go-ahead, Ilya carefully held his marshmallow over the flames. He was grinning much like a child and tsked at Shane’s very helpful input, like needing to rotate the stick so the marshmallow would roast evenly. 

“I want it how David said,” he said.

“You mean burned?” Shane said.

“Yes, burned.”

Shane shrugged and focused his attention on his own marshmallow, turning it at carefully timed intervals until it was very, very lightly golden on all sides. He pulled it away, held the stick’s handle between his knees, and was just placing the marshmallow between his two graham crackers when Ilya suddenly yelped.

“Shane, Shane, fire!” Ilya said rather uselessly as he waved around his stick. His marshmallow had, predictably, caught fire. “Help!”

“I thought you wanted it to be burned!”

“Yes, but nobody said it would go on fire!” Ilya said. Despite all his waving around, the marshmallow remained within the vicinity of the flames, which did not help.

“Catch on fire,” Shane corrected. “And what did you think burned meant —”

“Boys, stop bickering,” David cut in with a laugh. “And Shane, help him blow out the flames already!”

“Wait, Shane, careful!” Ilya said as Shane grabbed Ilya’s stick and brought it close to his face to carefully blow it out.

“Happy?” Shane asked dubiously, seeing the bubbling, black surface of Ilya’s marshmallow.

Ilya glanced across the fire at David, who shot him a cheery thumbs up, before nodding. “Da.” His teeth sank into his bottom lip as he focused on assembling the s’more into a sticky, gooey mess, blackened marshmallow spilling over the edges of the graham crackers.

Even as a child, Shane was not the biggest fan of s’mores. There was too much unpredictability in roasting them, figuring out the perfect timing and angle above the flames, and he hated the stickiness of it on his fingers. Yet it had cemented itself into tradition and his memories of his parents’ cottage, and he waited with bated breath as Ilya popped the s’more into his mouth in one piece.

“Chyort!” Ilya swore as soon as he swallowed. “This is best thing ever. Shane, we have to eat this all the time.”

“Neither of us have a firepit, Ilya,” Shane said, smiling at Ilya’s reaction. 

“Is okay, I use lighter,” Ilya said. “For this only. Not for smoking, of course.” He shot Yuna a brief look across the fire.

“Mhm,” Yuna said, utterly unconvinced. She had echoed Shane’s concerns about that particular habit.

Ilya ended up eating a truly disturbing number of s’mores. Shane, as a sane person, stopped after one. 

“We should call it a night,” Yuna said some time later, draining the last of her wine glass.

David groaned as he pushed himself up to stand. “Yeah, we’ll give you boys some time to yourselves.”

“What does that mean?” Shane said, staring up at his parents. “We don’t… need that.”

His parents exchanged a look. Ilya didn’t say anything, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he looked away. 

“What’re you talking about?” Yuna said. “We’re just going to bed, sweetie.”

“Uh, right, of course,” Shane said. There was a snorting sound to his left but he refused to look over. “Goodnight.”

Once they were gone, Shane sighed and relaxed against the sofa’s back, basking in the cool evening breeze and soothing crackles from the burning wood. A peaceful silence fell around them — for all of thirty seconds.

“This is what we do?” Ilya said. “Sit and stare at fire all night?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “Isn’t it nice?”

“Yes, is very pleasant,” Ilya said a little tersely, as if admitting that annoyed him somehow. 

As Ilya glanced at the house behind them, Shane tried to ignore the niggling disappointment in his stomach. But instead of getting up, Ilya smiled and gave a small wave, presumably catching Shane’s parents on their way to bed. Then he turned back around and, after a few seconds, his hand shifted on the sofa between them, inching towards Shane one finger at a time. 

There was no reason for Shane to tamp down his smile as he shifted, too, until their pinkies brushed together once, twice, and then, quiet and simultaneous, hooked around each other, calloused skin rough against calloused skin. 

Shane hated how something so small made him look over his shoulder, even though Ilya just had, even though Shane knew his parents had retired to bed, even though the back of the sofa blocked anything from view, anyways. Yet that touch, so simple, immediately soothed some ever-present knot in his stomach.

“What do you think of the cottage?” Shane asked some hours later as they quietly walked down the hall towards the guestrooms.

“Is nice,” Ilya said simply.

“Do you think you’d like spending time somewhere like this? In the summers, maybe?”
Shane was not expecting Ilya to snort. “Shane, I do not have summers to spend here. I’m working.”

“No, of course,” Shane said, face burning a little because he hadn’t considered how different Ilya’s work schedule was from his own. Summer seemed to be consistently busy for Ilya, since children were no longer constrained by long days at school. Even coming here for a single night, Ilya had fussed about having to move clients around. “I just meant… like, a few days here and there, I guess.”

“I mean, yes, sounds very nice,” Ilya said. “Spending days in boring Canadian wilderness fighting off big, scary Canadian wolf-birds.”

Shane laughed. “I told you that was a loon. It’s a bird.”

“Ach,” Ilya muttered, waving a hand at him. “Why do you care?”

“I just, uh…” Shane shrugged, staring at the wall as they stopped outside the first guestroom. “I was thinking about getting a cottage out here one day. Well, actually, I’d prefer to have one built.”

“And you want to know if I’d like it?

“I…” Shane's face grew even hotter. “I mean, yeah, I guess.”

Ilya muttered something in Russian. Then he roughly grabbed Shane’s arm and dragged them both into his room, shutting the door. His arms bracketed Shane against the wall, his voice a low purr in Shane’s ear as he said, “Mr. Real Estate.”

“Ilya, I have to get to my own room,” Shane said, ignoring the chill that ran down him, tempting him closer.

“Why?” Ilya said. He began to kiss down the side of Shane’s neck. “You will be awake so early, no? You can sneak back to your room before anyone else is awake.”

“Yeah, but… Okay, fine,” Shane sighed, tugging at Ilya’s shirt to keep him close. “But we’re not fucking.”

“Okay, yes, no fucking.”

They ended up fucking. Shane only let Ilya just barely rock into him, too scared of risking a squeaking bedframe or the creak of a floorboard, but this slow, agonising, barely-there motion turned out to be a form of torture for Shane personally, who could not be quieted by pillows or even Ilya’s hand. 

“Shane, moya lyubov, shh,” Ilya murmured between wet, open-mouth kisses to the edge of Shane’s cheek where his fingers didn’t quite reach. “So noisy, you will make me choke you like this.”

The words hit Shane hard. He looked up at Ilya, eyes wide as his cock spasmed between their stomachs.

“You want?” Ilya said again, quieter now, as his hand released its biting grip from Shane’s mouth and slipped over the edge of his jaw, palm hot and slippery with sweat, to grasp at his throat. Lightly, at first, with a gentle, testing squeeze. At Shane’s eager, frenzied nod, he applied more pressure, fingers digging into the sides of Shane’s throat at the same time his palm flattened against Shane’s windpipe.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Shane croaked out, one hand flying up to grip Ilya’s wrist and pull down. “Harder.”

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya said, panting as his head dropped to rest against Shane’s cheek. His hips stuttered and then stilled, flush against Shane’s ass. When he pulled back up, his face was flushed deeply red and his gaze darted between Shane’s eyes and open, gasping mouth and down at his throat.

Everything was hazy, but in a way that was distinctly different from what Shane was used to with Ilya. This was sharper, somehow; accompanied by a vague sense of alarm that tingled under his skin, blurring the edges of his mind and spreading down his arms and legs. Intoxicating. He blinked and when he opened his eyes, some of the darkness lingered at the corners of his vision.

There was a tapping sensation against Shane’s hand. He blinked again, trying to focus his fraying attention on Ilya’s moving lips.

“Let go if it’s too much, okay, malysh?”

His limbs felt like they were floating, not quite detached but not fully under his control, either. He knew, logically, that he was probably still crushing Ilya’s wrist under the grip of his hand but it was like pushing through drying cement, willing his muscles to flex a little harder, desperate to make sure Ilya did not stop.

“Fuck, look at you,” Ilya moaned. Quietly because unlike Shane, he was capable of modulating his voice even deep in the throes of pleasure.

Shane’s eyelids were heavy weights dragging down over his eyes. He struggled to keep them open, if only because he was sure the Ilya would remove his hand if he thought Shane was actually close to passing out.

There was something there, though, in that idea — of Ilya fucking him through that, through unconsciousness — that had Shane’s vision whiting out as his body seized in a terrible, twisting tightness, near-unbearable had all sensation not been reduced to something distant and indistinct. 

Ilya’s hand moved then, and Shane barely managed a rasping, wretched inhale before he was wrapped in a bruising hug. “Fuck,” Ilya groaned as his hips jerked, finding his own relief at last. “Fuck,” he said again, still panting, staring at Shane with an open, aching expression. He shook his head, almost as if in disbelief. The Russian that fell from his lips sounded like nothing Shane had heard from him before, especially after fucking; it lacked the harshness of cursing and even the playful tone of something teasing.

“What?”

“I…” Ilya blinked, looking struck. He dropped his forehead to Shane’s shoulder, shaking his head again. Shane heard a quiet sniffle and then, muffled against his skin, “It is very long time since I had such a nice birthday.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Shane said. He lifted a hand to brush at Ilya’s mess of curls. “Happy birthday, Ilya.”

“Thank you,” Ilya said. He pushed up, grabbing Shane’s face in both hands and kissing him. Somewhere in there, he spoke again — those same words, Shane was pretty sure. They tumbled out in a jumbled mess against Shane’s lips, as if Ilya couldn’t contain them.

“What — what is that?” Shane asked again.

“What?”

“What you said, in Russian. It’s not ‘thank you,’” he said, because that was something Ilya would do, sometimes — say a small phrase in both English and Russian, back-to-back, for Shane’s benefit.

Ilya looked at him with faked surprise. “Is not?”

“I know how to say ‘thank you,’ Ilya,” Shane said flatly. 

“Okay.” Ilya shrugged. “Say it.”

Shane didn’t know why Ilya was being so difficult — he knew Shane knew thank you in Russian. And the variations, too, like bol'shoye spasibo, which Ilya had just said earlier that evening. But it was Ilya’s birthday, and if there was one thing Ilya loved, it was annoying Shane. So, with only a small sigh, he gave in.

“Spasibo.”

“Fuck, you are so sexy,” Ilya said, snapping his teeth and biting at Shane’s jaw. 

Shane huffed and pushed back against him, gently rolling them over. “You’re unbelievable,” he muttered as he leaned down, giving Ilya another kiss.

Chapter End Notes

Blyad — 'whore' but used like 'fuck' in English
Rusalka — a female spirit from Russian mythology. To my understanding, there are a few different iterations but per some traditions, rusalki would seduce men to drown them (similar to sirens).
Bol'shoye spasibo, moy dorogoy — thank you very much, my dear
Chyort — ‘devil’ but used colloquially like ‘crap'; can be used positively (like here) or negatively.
moya lyubov — my love
Malysh — baby

The original chapter 11 (now chapter 12) just had a small throw-away line about Ilya recently getting choked up when David called him “son” while grilling together. Last-minute decided to write out that scene but since it had to happen in June, surely they'd celebrate Ilya’s birthday! And if Ilya gets a birthday celebration, Shane must get one, too… Anyways, hope you all enjoyed this!

The CELPIP (Canadian English Language Proficiency Index Program) is one of the English language tests you can take to apply for Express Entry. But please don’t think too much about the immigration stuff because this is ultimately just a super self-indulgent fanfic, lol.

My tumblr <3

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

I’ve officially committed to changing the chapter count to 13 chapters! There is ONE more after this, I swear!

Shane skated into the home plate. Aware of the bodies barrelling after him, he immediately shot the puck forward and barely had time to watch it slide past the crease towards the goalie when he was slammed from the side. As he righted himself, he kept his eyes on the priority — the puck — and grinned as he saw it slide right between the goalie’s knees.

It might have been easy to miss, over the roaring cheers of the crowd, but Shane had long ago learned to tune out sounds that didn’t offer any kind of advantage to the game. His body was aware of it but just like the sweat dripping down the back of his neck or the ice-cold air against his cheeks, it wasn’t a part of Shane’s conscious awareness.

His focus was narrowed to a sharp awareness of things on the ice. And so he heard, muttered as it was, the remark from the player who had checked him – Dallas Kent — as he skated past Shane unnecessarily close, shoulder once again hitting Shane.

“Fucking faggot.”

“The fuck did you just say?”

It probably surprised Shane more than anyone else, the way the words leapt from his mouth.

As he slowly turned around, Dallas wore a twisting, one-sided grin and cold, narrowed eyes. “Said you’re a fucking faggot, Hollander. So what?”

It was ingrained strategy, the way Shane was aware of the other players — already skating away to get into face-off position only a few had stopped, now, and were turned towards them. He felt the intensity of their gazes as shame burned inside him, hot and familiar. He felt the resistance in his own muscles and deep into bone — his body screaming at him to stop, to not draw attention to that kind of remark, even as he took a step forward. 

He thought of Ilya, watching the game tonight back in Ottawa, and the taste of shame became a little less thick on his tongue. Another step forward.

“Maybe if you ran half as hard as you run your mouth,” he said. “You might actually score a few goals tonight.”

Dallas let out a derisive laugh and shook his head. “Wonder why you never run your mouth, Hollander. Guess your mouth’s too full of cock to say anything, huh?”

And something in Shane just — shifted. Instead of all-consuming fear seizing his muscles, there was a surge of newfound anger as he ripped off his glove and swung his arm, fist raised.

He wasn’t a coward by any means, but he preferred a clean game where his skill spoke for itself. But he had to admit there was a certain unique satisfaction, feeling the impact of bone under his knuckles.

The fist colliding with Shane’s face in turn was easily predicted; he had already shifted his stance, with his feet shoulder-width apart and knees slightly bent. It made contact with his jaw, just high enough to grind the inside of his cheek against the edge of his mouthguard. Something bright burst in Shane’s awareness — his body registering sensations that would soon turn to pain — but for now he pushed forward, arm raised to throw another punch.

Someone grabbed his jersey from behind and Shane twisted around, fist ready to swing, when he saw a flash of white of the Metros’ away-game jersey.

“Fuck, Holly!” Hayden shouted as he began to pull Shane backward. “We need you in the game, man!”

It was too late. The sharp blow of a whistle carried across the ice as the ref skated over, hands positioned before him in a T-shape. “Break it up!” he shouted, because even though Hayden had pulled Shane away, both teams had descended upon each other by now, shouting and shoving at one other. Once all the players could be successfully pried from each other, the referee pointed to Shane and Kent. “Five minutes for fighting, both of you!”

Shane just popped out his mouthguard and spat onto the ice. The bright red spray across the ice made him grin. 

In that moment, at least, shame and fear felt like foreign concepts to Shane. He was twitchy with a jittery, excited energy as he shrugged out of Hayden’s grip and skated to the penalty box. His mind whirred with thoughts too quick to be categorised, an ache bloomed across his jaw, and a thick, coppery taste coated his tongue. But as soon as he sat down on the small bench inside the penalty box, it all faded from awareness. All he knew was the game. He watched as Hayden and Barrett got into position for the face-off. WIth his stick tight in his grip and muscles clenched, his body counted down the minutes as his mind processed the play, ready to spring back onto the ice as soon as his time was up.

“You know…”

Yuna’s voice dragged out in a way that had Shane’s spoon stilling against the side of his mug. The last time she had used that kind of casually coaxing voice, she had tried to convince Shane to attend some kind of tennis event to score some brand a few diversity points. 

“Ilya’s a very nice boy,” Yuna continued.

“Yuna.”

Shane frowned at David’s sharp tone. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking between his parents.

A few weeks ago, he had been added to a group text chain. After receiving a series of grinning purple emojis with little horns, he learned Ilya had created it for the four of them. So far, it mostly consisted of Ilya goading Shane’s parents into complimenting him, and Ilya immediately rubbing it in Shane’s face while Shane pretended to be annoyed despite the warm, happy feeling it gave him. 

But even before the group chat, Shane had been well aware of how much his parents liked Ilya. Which made this all the more confusing.

“Nothing’s wrong, sweetie,” Yuna said. “You know we love you no matter what, right? And you can tell us anything?”

“Okay,” Shane said flatly. He wrapped both hands around his mug. He had boiled it to the optimal temperature for steeping tea, which was not quite hot enough to draw his mind away from his building anxiety.

“What your mother is trying to say, is…” David’s voice trailed off on a sigh as he placed his beer on a coaster on Shane’s coffee table before interlacing his fingers and resting his hands on his lap. 

Shane looked between his parents, trying very hard not to feel like a child about to be scolded. He didn’t know what they could possibly scold him for — he was at the top of his game, he had a good amount of brand deals and sponsorships, and he was even coming across as “warmer” in interviewers, according to his mother, whatever that meant.

David cleared his throat. “You and Ilya seem really close,” he said. 

A relieved breath escaped Shane’s lips. But David continued talking and Shane found his next breath caught in the back of his mouth, unable to be drawn down into his lungs.

“And that makes us very happy to see! And I suppose, if there was ever anything —” David turned to Yuna.

“We want to make sure you feel comfortable coming to us, if there’s something… more,” Yuna said delicately. “To your relationship.”

Shane’s chest tightened. “What?” he said hoarsely. Under the heavy weight of his parents’ gazes, he dropped his gaze to his knees.

“We’re so proud of you, Shane,” Yuna said, her gentle, encouraging voice grating over Shane’s skin. “And we love you so much. You know nothing will ever —”

“Okay,” Shane cut in. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hands into fists. “Just… I need a minute.”

After Ilya’s birthday, particularly David calling him “son,” he and Ilya had broached, hesitantly at first, the possibility of talking to Shane’s parents. It was something that scared them for wildly different reasons, though Shane had assured Ilya that his parents weren’t homophobic and would never lay a hand on him or Shane for any reason.

But he hadn’t known how to put into words his own fears. He hadn’t known how to explain the relentless, colossal weight on his shoulders. How it had first taken shape when he was a child, too young to conceptualise the experience of otherness but feeling it nevertheless; how it had worsened around eleven, when his mom had first grabbed him by the shoulders and warned him that a scout would be attending his next game. 

It’s not that Shane had a problem with gay people — he didn’t. But he had always felt it was something that was okay for other people, not for him. His life was ruled by the kinds of expectations that did not allow room to be different. He had already failed at that, anyways, with things that carried a significance he recognised but didn’t always understand, like how he found it difficult to maintain eye contact or sometimes he laughed a little too late and a little too quietly at a joke. 

There was no room for another defect. 

He thought his parents probably felt the same. That it was okay to be gay, just not for their son. Not for their golden child who was scouted from a young age and who had pushed himself year after year to excel, always pushing harder and excelling more through sheer determination, until earning first draft pick, and even still after that. Not for the phenom who had sponsorships and deals on the line all while carrying the burden of being an inspiration for countless children who could finally see someone like themselves in the MLH.

“I’m sorry,” Shane choked out. In the discussions he had had with Ilya about this kind of moment, Ilya had offered to be at his side and selfishly, Shane had clung to that offer like a lifeline. But Ilya wasn’t here, because it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, and it wasn’t supposed to happen now. “I’m sorry,” he said again. His eyes were burning. “I-I didn’t mean to.”

“Shane, what are you talking about?”

Shane dropped his head in between his knees and groaned. Panic fluttered against his ribs, threatening to spread through his limbs and squeeze his heart until it burst. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t — I didn’t mean for it. We just — and then I tried, I really tried.”

“Shane, sweetheart, we don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just take some deep breaths, kiddo,” David said.

Pressing his thumbs into his eyes, Shane tried to distract himself from some of the overwhelming sensations. “I didn’t want to be —” 

It lodged in his throat. That word. He tried to shift his mouth and tongue into the appropriate shape, to force something approximating it, but his jaw clenched so tightly he worried it had locked. The bruise on his jaw flared to life, an unwelcome reminder. He had refused to explain the incident with Kent to his parents; they probably thought Kent had thrown some racist slur at him.

“I tried, with — with women,” Shane said instead. That, at least, managed to find its way out of his mouth. “But it just wasn’t — and with Ilya, it’s…”

There was a choked sound and Shane looked up, eyes widening as he saw Yuna holding a hand over her mouth, tears falling down her cheeks. “Mom,” he said, pained, voice cracking. He had upset his mom a few times over his lifetime — most often worrying her with injuries; he had aggravated her rarely and disappointed her even more rarely — but he hadn’t ever made her cry. He wished terribly that it was something else, like maybe if he had been seen too many times in public with Nikes on, and now Reebok was cancelling his brand deal, because at least that was something Shane could fix. “Mom, please, I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Yuna said. With a deep breath, she opened her eyes and stared at him with wide, imploring eyes and a heavily downturned mouth. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

Startled by her fierce tone, Shane looked over to his dad to see him nodding rapidly, one arm wrapped around Yuna. “Absolutely nothing, kiddo.”

“We’re so sorry that we made you scared to tell us,” Yuna said.

Shane ducked his head once more as he felt hot tears roll down his cheeks. He heard movement and his shoulders tightened as the couch cushion beside him sunk down with an added weight.

“Can I hug you?” Yuna asked softly. At Shane’s nod, she wrapped one arm around his back, still allowing him some space. He took in a breath before turning toward her and pressed his face into her shoulder as she began to stroke his back. 

“Please forgive us,” she said, and Shane’s face crumpled as he settled both his arms around her.

“I forgive you,” he said. He felt the couch dip on the other side. “I love you both.”

“I love you more than anything,” David said, rubbing gently at Shane’s back.

Yuna nodded, pulling away to cup Shane’s face and wipe at his tears. “I love you.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane blurted out a few hours later as Ilya’s front door flew open. “I-I should’ve called or texted…”

After walking his parents to their car and hugging them goodbye, Shane had turned around to walk back inside his apartment. Yet the short distance suddenly stretched before him like an eternity and when a blunt sensation against his palm made him look down, he realised he had his keys clenched in his fist.

He hadn’t remembered grabbing them. There had been no need; his front door had a keypad, which he had used to lock it — a habit, even for the short walk to his parents’ car. He had stared down at the gleaming, jagged metal peeking out from his closed fist and back up at his apartment. The brick exterior and front door had stood dark in the evening light, uninviting, and Shane had found himself turning towards his car instead. 

It was only now, with Ilya standing in front of him, that he realised neither of them had ever done this before — shown up at the other's place, unannounced and unexpected. 

“Shane?” Ilya’s brows pulled into a small frown as he stared at Shane. He lifted his hand towards Shane’s face but quickly dropped it. He took a step back, motioning Shane inside.

As soon as the door was shut, Shane’s face was enveloped in Ilya’s hands. “Everything is okay?” Ilya asked.

“My parents know,” Shane managed tightly.

Ilya slowly nodded as his eyes glanced over Shane’s expression. He wasn’t crying, certainly not again, but Ilya’s thumbs brushed under his eyes anyways. “You are okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. His lips managed a small smile. He was still mostly in disbelief. “Yeah, they’re — it’s good. Everything’s good.”

“Yes?” Ilya asked, head tilting. “You do not look good, moya lyubov’.”

The bluntness of it — so utterly, familiarly Ilya — made Shane laugh. “It was just a lot.”

Ilya made a small noise, one hand lifting to brush through Shane’s hair. “What do you need?”

Shane tipping forward, grabbing at Ilya’s shirt. “Just this,” he said. As he all but collapsed against Ilya, he had a passing thought that maybe his weight was too much, but Ilya only made an encouraging sound.

“Come, sit,” Ilya said eventually. “I will make you super special drink.”

The super special drink was a cold can of ginger ale poured out into a glass. They settled in the living room with Shane’s back pressed to Ilya’s chest and one of Ilya’s legs bent against the back of the couch.

“They brought it up first. My mom did.” Frowning, Shane remembered his dad’s sharp tone as he had said Yuna’s name. “I think… my dad tried to stop her.” 

A quiet buzzing settled over Shane’s skin as something worked itself through his mind. It must have been something they had both suspected, he realised. Not only that, but they must have already discussed it before. That thought settled in Shane’s stomach like a heavy rock. How long had they suspected it? How many conversations had they had about it? What had made them suspect it to begin with? What should he change —

“Shane?”

A weight pressed against Shane’s chest, rubbing slightly. It was Ilya’s hand, rising and falling in short movements with Shane’s shallow breath. “I’m okay,” he said. 

He waited until his breathing returned to a deep, measured pace before recounting the conversation with his parents. He fidgetted his way through it, anxiousness twisting at his insides, but by the end, he found himself smiling slightly. “They’re… happy for us,” he said. It was surreal to say out loud.

He twisted around to see Ilya’s expression, and watched Ilya’s facial muscles twitch before giving into an unbearably soft smile.

“Yes?”

‘I better watch out,” he said, his own smile widening. “They’re gonna replace me with you one of these days.”

“Mm, no, not replace,” Ilya said. “But I will be number one favourite son, yes.”

Shane couldn’t even pretend at annoyance — hearing Ilya refer to himself as Yuna and David’s son so easily, and knowing it was true, warmed him inside-out.

He shifted around until he could lean his side against Ilya’s chest. With the steady thump of Ilya’s heartbeat in his ear and the warmth of Ilya’s arm around him, the concerns that had plagued him just a minute ago were far-away. His fingers found the hem of Ilya’s shirt and began fiddling with it. 

“Is there anyone you want to tell?” he asked. They had only ever discussed talking to Shane’s parents. He tried to ignore the anxious twist in his stomach at the thought of more people finding out. “Not your family, obviously, but… friends?”

The warm weight of Ilya’s mouth pressed against the top of Shane’s head in a brief kiss. “Not really. No.”

“As in you don’t want to tell anyone, or, uh… you don’t have anyone to tell?”

“I have one friend, from Russia,” Ilya said slowly. “Sveta. We are friends since we were little kids. She is in America, now. Boston. But… we have not talked for a long time.”

“Oh. Why?” Shane tried to tip his back to look up at Ilya, but he was stopped by Ilya’s hand settling on the back of his head as Ilya’s fingers began carding through his hair.

“It was very hard when I first came here. I did not tell her,” Ilya explained. “For a long time, she did not know where I was or if I’m okay. I thought it was safer for her like that.”

“Oh, is she also —?” Once again, the word struggled to make its way out of Shane’s throat.

“No. No, but, her father is very important person in Russia. Much more important than my father. And I thought if maybe one day he found out about me and Sasha” – The coach’s son, Shane now knew – “We are all friends, so maybe he thinks she is like us?”

Shane wanted to dispute it, but he harboured a similar fear – a paranoia that if his teammates ever found out, among the other fall-out he would have to deal with, they might think it was… contagious or something.

“I did tell her, eventually. She was very upset. It was hard for me to deal with, a little. Not the anger, but… her fear.”

Ilya sighed. He continued stroking Shane’s hair as his other arm tightened around Shane just slightly. Shane wasn’t entirely sure of what to say but he was spared from filling the silence when Ilya said, very quietly, “I think there is worse reason, too, maybe.”

Shane made a small, encouraging noise.

“Sometimes I feel angry,” he said. “Because Sveta and Sasha can go back to Russia whenever they want. There is not much for me back home but I have a niece I have never even met. And…”

Ilya’s breath ghosted over Shane’s hair in a jagged, heavy exhale. Shane turned to face him, pushing against the weight of Ilya’s hand on his head, and caught a glimpse of Ilya’s tightly pursed lips as he quickly looked away. 

“I cannot visit my mother’s grave,” Ilya finally said.

The words hit Shane as hard as any body-check against the boards. “Ilya, I didn’t realise —”

“Yes,” Ilya cut off brusquely. His hand dropped from Shane’s head to curl around the gold cross he always wore. He was blinking rapidly, face still averted. “She died when I was twelve.”

“I’m so sorry,” Shane said.

“Yes, was very terrible. Sorry,” Ilya choked out, trying to twist away even further when Shane reached towards him.

“No, it’s okay,” Shane murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Ilya nodded. He kept facing away but he didn’t protest any further as Shane brushed at the tears spilling down his cheeks.

“You did not expect this, yes?” Ilya said dryly. He caught one of Shane’s hands in his own, pulling it toward his mouth for a kiss. “I think the English word is — baggage?”

“It’s not baggage,” Shane said, shaking his head. He mirrored Ilya’s action, bringing Ilya’s hand to his mouth to give it a kiss. “Never baggage from you, Ilya, it could never be. I —”

The potential inappropriateness of the timing did not occur to Shane. Neither of them had ever had the privilege of good timing, after all; they both lived in worlds that could not accept who they truly were. The very existence of this thing between them — this relationship, even if Shane, and Ilya, and Yuna, and David were the only ones who knew to call it such — was built from persistence, recklessness, and maybe even stupidity. It existed despite things like good timing and appropriateness.

All Shane knew was that the thought of Ilya aching and alone, burdened with the weight of so many traumas he thought he had to hold back from Shane, even now — the thought that Ilya still worried Shane could ever be overwhelmed, or scared off, or think differently of him — had to be rectified, immediately and unquestioningly.

“Ilya,” Shane said, flat and stern. A first in all these years, Shane was the one coaxing Ilya to look him in the eyes with a gentle but firm pressure on Ilya’s jaw. He watched, fond despite the heaviness of the moment, as Ilya sniffed and wriggled his nose and tried to look entirely unaffected before he finally turned to face Shane fully.

“I love you,” Shane said. He watched as Ilya’s eyes, red and glistening and the most beautiful crystal blue he had ever seen, widened slightly. And then his expression crumpled just before his head fell forward, forehead resting against Shane’s cheek.

“Fuck,” Ilya said.

Shane only smiled and held Ilya against him. He felt unexpectedly lighter; so light he was almost giddy. His lips ached with the need to pour his love into Ilya one kiss at a time, but he knew Ilya needed a moment, and Shane would gladly give Ilya anything in the world.

When Ilya finally pulled away, tears ran freely down his cheeks but he did not twist away to hide it. Shane grabbed his face, fingers slipping a little against the wetness of his cheeks, and finally pulled him in for a kiss. He felt Ilya’s fingers digging into his own cheeks, gripping as if life itself depended on it and causing a dull ache in Shane’s still-healing bruise. 

A small part of him registered the salty taste of Ilya’s lips, and he moaned at the simple pleasure of getting to experience a new part of Ilya for the first time. But most of his mind and body were focused on something far more important: I love you. I love you. I love you so much, thought with every brush of his lips and swipe of his tongue and each pull of breath, in and out, shared between them.

Despite the intensity of the moment, they kissed with a restrained kind of ravenousness — one where they could still manage to pull away from each other, instead of falling into an inescapable need to rip off their clothes and fuck.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya said as soon as their mouths parted. His eyes flitted across Shane’s face with an expression that looked a lot like wonder. “Ya tebya lyublyu. I love you.”

“God, I love you so much,” Shane said immediately because now that the words were out, in the world between them, his chest felt like it would explode if he didn’t say it again, and again, and again. “I love you, Ilya.”

“Ya tebya lyublyu.” The words were pressed against Shane’s lips, then his cheek, then his throat.

“How do you say it?” Shane asked.

“No,” Ilya said, lifting his face from Shane’s throat with a narrow-eyed look. “You will kill me to hear it now from you. I’ll teach you another time, okay?”

“Fine,” Shane said. “I’ll just say it in French, then. Je t’aime de tout mon être.”

Ilya groaned dramatically. “No. Is too much. Perfect hockey career, perfect family, perfect boyfriend —” At that, Shane snorted and rolled his eyes. “And perfect French? No. Too many perfect for one person.”

“Ilya, that doesn’t even make sense.” Shane was smiling as he said it.

Ilya smiled, too, though it slowly fell as he grazed his knuckles along Shane’s left jaw. “I want to kill him still.”

“Remember what we said,” Shane said.

“Only after you win your first Cup.” Ilya’s eyes dragged from the splotch of mottled purple-yellow to Shane’s eyes. Shane felt a mild thrill at Ilya’s wording. Your first Cup. “One last — what is it? Salt in his cuts? — before I kill him very slowly and very painfully.”

“Exactly,” Shane said, leaning forward to give Ilya another kiss. “And it’s salt in the wound.”

Ilya clucked his tongue. “Mine is better,” he said, as if English idioms were up for debate.

Through many exchanged kisses and gentle touches, they wound up on the other side of the couch, this time positions reversed with Ilya a solid, comforting weight against Shane’s chest. He was sprawled out absolutely ridiculously, lying on his stomach with his arms widespread and draped loosely around Shane. With his cheek pressed against Shane, his neck was bent at an angle that simply could not have been comfortable but he refused to move.

One of Shane’s hands smoothed up and down the length of Ilya’s back as his other hand brushed over Ilya’s cheek and idly twisted at his curls. He thought over everything Ilya had told him, holding every detail precious in his mind. But his thoughts lingered on Sveta, this friend Ilya had had since childhood. It wasn’t something Shane could relate to personally yet every part of him ached thinking of the loss of that relationship, on top of so many other losses. But unlike every other loss it sounded, to Shane, like something Ilya had a chance of recovering.

“You should reach out to her,” Shane said. They had lapsed into a prolonged silence and it took him a few seconds to realise he might need to explain what he meant.

But Ilya just said, “Maybe.” Perhaps his thoughts, too, had turned to Sveta, but he did not sound certain. “Maybe,” he said again.

“Do you think she’d… be okay with it?” Shane asked. “With us?”

“She already knows. About me, I mean,” Ilya said, to Shane’s surprise. “She knew about Sasha. This would not surprise her.” Lifting his head slightly, Ilya stared up at Shane through his eyelashes. “Mm, except for how boring you are, of course.”

“Of course,” Shane said, rolling his eyes. “Asshole.” 

Ilya only snorted and rested back down against Shane’s chest once more. Before Shane could let them drift back into peaceful silence, he wrapped a curl around his finger and gave a single, light tug. “Just think about it, okay?”

“Mm, yes,” Ilya murmured. “Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

moya lyubov' — my love
Ya tebya lyublyu — I love you
Je t’aime de tout mon être — I love you with all my being

My tumblr :)

Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

The amount of Russian in this chapter is truly GRATUITOUS. I’m so sorry but hopefully you will understand why!

As Shane slid his key into Ilya’s lock, he contemplated a day when this might feel utterly mundane. As much as he welcomed the frisson of excitement that always ran through him, he wondered what it might feel like if this was simply unremarkable — as unremarkable as unlocking his own apartment, twisting his own doorknob, and pushing open his own front door — because there would no longer be Ilya’s place and his place. No longer two separate, distinct entities where neither could fully be at home because things like spare clothes had to be tucked away and the only photos together were buried in hidden, password-protected folders on their phones. There could just be one home that they shared together.

Sighing, Shane pushed those kinds of thoughts aside. His hand was already jiggling, twisting the key in a little movement that had already become second-nature to keep it from getting stuck inside the lock Ilya refused to get fixed even though Shane had given him the name of a locksmith multiple times.

Shane had just twisted the key fully and heard the heavy bolt unlatch within when the door suddenly swung open to reveal a woman with curly hair, light-coloured eyes, and golden skin. She cocked a hip against the doorframe, exuding a casual self-assurance, as if Ilya’s home was her own. Her eyes passed over Shane in an unhurried scroll.

A frown pulled between Shane’s brows as he crossed his arms. He watched, unnerved, as her lips pulled into a razor-sharp smile. Then she thrust her hand out towards him.

“Shane Hollander,” she said in a honey-smooth voice.

Shane stared at her hand. “You know me?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “You are very good hockey player.”

Something niggled at the back of Shane’s mind hearing her speak but it was lost as she leaned forward, closer than Shane thought was probably socially appropriate, and winked at him.

“And I’m a very big fan of yours.”

Shane took an immediate step back. “Thank you,” he said flatly. He began to consider what kind of excuse could lead him here — forgot something at his last lesson? But why wouldn’t he just call or text? And what about when Ilya didn’t have anything to give him? — but instead of asking what he was doing here, the woman sighed heavily.

“He is right! You are so boring.” She muttered something in Russian before holding out her hand again. “Svetlana Vetrova.”

“Svetlana,” Shane repeated. Then, as realisation hit him, “Sveta!”

He clasped her hand, possibly a little too tight, but he could barely feel it against the ache in his cheeks as he smiled widely. Outside of the MLH, he didn’t think he had ever been so happy to meet someone. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Ilya told you about me?” Svetlana asked. She continued to lounge against the doorway as Shane walked inside and pulled off his shoes. Her smile was still sharp as she said, “Only bad things, I hope.”

“Bad things?” Shane said, surprised. “He hasn’t said much, but —”

Svetlana made a loud scoffing sound then called something out in Russian. There was no opportunity to ask what was wrong before she walked off. Shane was left to follow her to the living room and there he found Ilya, stretched languidly across his couch, head tipped back with a glass of clear liquid held aloft in his hand. Another glass sat on the couch, along with a near-empty bottle of liquor.

Muttering something in Russian, Ilya sat up with a small groan before taking another sip of his drink. When he finally spotted Shane, he blinked owlishly a few times before he broke into a grin and pushed to stand. Even his stumbling held a certain grace as he made his way over to Shane. Shane held out his hands to offer Ilya help to steady himself but Ilya simply fell against him in a heavy hug, the glass in his hand knocking against Shane’s back.

“Moy Shenya!” Ilya shouted as he swayed against Shane. His cheek was burning hot as it brushed against the side of Shane’s face, and his breath carried the sharp scent of alcohol. “You must meet Sveta! My very dearest friend.”

“We already met at the door, Ilya,” Shane said with a small, fond smile.

“He is very drunk,” Svetlana pointed out.

“We are Russian! Is not possible!”

Shane shook his head, laughing quietly. “I think you’re a little drunk, Ilya,” he said.

Ilya drank around him on occasion, though not enough to get drunk. This was a new Ilya and as Shane greedily drank in his rosy cheeks and wild, untamed hair, he realised it was not altogether an unfamiliar look. In fact, it was a little too similar to post-fuck Ilya, which was not a very safe line of thinking for Shane in this moment.

“I did not think I could be happier today but here you are,” Ilya said. Pulling away slightly, he grabbed Shane’s chin with his empty hand. “Shane, moy lyubimyy. I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too,” Shane murmured. So utterly taken by Ilya’s soft, happy expression and lightly flushed cheeks, he was slow to register the growing furrow between Ilya’s eyebrows.

“Fuck,” Ilya said. “We had plans tonight, I think.”

“It’s okay,” Shane said. “I don’t —”

“Dinner!” Ilya said suddenly. “You are in perfect time for dinner.” His eyes fell to Shane’s mouth and Shane had no choice but to watch Ilya drag his tongue along his plush, bottom lip. “Sveta can’t eat you. Only me.”

“Um,” was all Shane managed.

Svetlana just laughed and walked away, probably towards the kitchen. Shane didn’t spare it much thought because Ilya was leaning forward and crashing their mouths together. Shane grabbed Ilya’s face, relishing the burning warmth of his alcohol-flushed cheeks. He could feel one of Ilya’s hands on the back of his neck as the other tried to grope at his back but only served to press the hard edge of his glass into Shane’s back.

With a frustrated noise, Ilya pulled away, brought the glass to his mouth, drained it in one gulp, and tossed it behind him.

“Ilya!” Shane said but it was impossible to muster up concern about potential shattered glass when Ilya’s hands were on him, properly this time, one twisting in his hair as the other grasped at his hip. He hadn’t heard anything shatter, anyways.

Shane chased the taste of liquor on Ilya’s lips and tongue, licking and sucking until nothing remained but the familiar, warm taste that was purely Ilya, without distractions or pollutants.

Ilya eased his mouth away once more and this time Shane followed, gentle kisses gradually fading to little nudges of their noses against each other. Dragging a thumb across Ilya’s cheekbone, Shane took in his glassy, red eyes.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Hmm?” Ilya’s hand lifted, holding Shane’s hand in place as he turned it over to press a kiss to Shane’s palm. “Da. Yes. Moё serdtce polno lyubvi.”

“I’m glad,” Shane said. He couldn’t interpret Ilya’s sentence fully but Ilya’s soft smile and earnest gaze were more than enough. “Look, I don’t want to intrude. You weren’t answering your phone and I didn’t realise you had other plans —”

“Intrude?” Ilya said. He pulled back, slapping a hand against his chest rather dramatically. “Shane, you are lyubov' vsey moyey zhizni. How can you say intrude?”

“But you guys are catching up,” Shane started to protest.

“Yes, and now we will catch up with, ah, what is English saying? You are konfetka but for my eyes.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Shane said, even though he was already gravitating towards Ilya, filling what little space had grown between them.

“Of course,” Ilya said. “You are moy zaychik. You eat only boring food.”

“Wow, you are really drunk,” Shane said, because Ilya was making no sense. “Let’s get some food in you, okay?”

With stumbling steps, Ilya led Shane down the hallway, swinging Shane’s hand the entire way. He unexpectedly halted at the threshold of the kitchen and Shane looked up, taking in Ilya’s quiet expression as he watched Svetlana standing in front of his open fridge.

“V nogakh pravdy nyet,” Ilya said.

If not the words themselves, Shane recognised Ilya’s dry tone; whatever he had said caused Svetlana to toss a glare over her shoulder. “This is how you treat guest in your home?” Shutting the fridge door, she threw up a hand. “You have no food, Ilyusha.”

“So dramatic,” Ilya said. He staggered towards the fridge, pulling it back open and leaning heavily against the door as he bent forward to look inside. Even bathed in the harsh yellow light, he looked ethereal, somehow. He said something in Russian and looked over to Svetlana, who just shrugged. He began to pull out various ingredients — sausage, cured meats, carrots, onions, potatoes, black olives, and… pickles.

Despite Ilya’s earlier reassurance, Shane still felt like an intruder during such an important evening. There was an ease to the way that Ilya and Svetlana moved around each other despite the confinement of the small kitchen; it spoke to years of familiarity and countless nights cooking together that Shane did not want to disrupt. At least until he saw Ilya fumble for a large knife and then he shot forward, distracting Ilya with a kiss to the cheek as he wrapped his hand around the knife’s handle.

“I can chop,” he said, pulling out a cutting board and nodding to the pile of potatoes.

Whether in retaliation or possibly just drunken, childish antics, Ilya decided to throw them at Shane instead of handing them over like a normal adult. Though Shane caught them all with ease, including the few that had arced far out of his path.

“Thanks for that,” Shane muttered. “How should I cut them?”

“Mr. Hockey Man needs help to use knife?”

“No, I mean what size do you want, Ilya.”

“Oh, you think a lot about size —”

“You know what? Never mind!”

Laughing, Ilya held up his thumb and forefinger, about a centimetre apart. “Normal size, moy lyubimyy,” he said.

“Normal size,” Shane repeated under his breath. A little louder, he asked, “So, uh, how long are you visiting, Svetlana?”

“You know, she took first flight here,” Ilya said, which was not at all an answer to Shane’s question.

“Ilyusha, don’t lie to your lover,” Svetlana said.

“Lover?” Shane said.

“First flight did not have any first-class tickets,” Svetlana continued. “And I love you, Ilyusha, but not that much.”

“She is liar!” Ilya said. “I called her. We talk for first time in years. And after we hang up, suddenly she is here four hours later! Shane, is not possible.”

With a loud sigh, Svetlana said, “Okay, okay, yes. Fine.”

“That’s really sweet,” Shane said earnestly. He wasn’t sure why Svetlana would want to claim otherwise, yet as he looked over his shoulder, he saw her features twist as if she had just bit into something unexpectedly sour.

Her expression smoothed as she waltzed over to Ilya, grabbing an onion and the jar of pickles. “Yes, well, they had one first-class ticket left, so.” On her way back, she paused at Shane’s side and said, “You can’t be too soft or he will get — zadirat' nos. His nose will go up.”

“Can’t have that,” Shane agreed dryly. He had no idea what Svetlana could possibly mean. Eyeing the jar in her hands, he asked, “What are you making, exactly?”

“Delicious Russian food!” Ilya said.

Shane snorted, remembering how he had once watched Ilya eat Kraft Dinner straight out of the pot – and that was while completely sober.

“You don’t like Russian food?” Svetlana asked. A quick flick of her wrist and the jar of pickles opened with a loud pop.

“No, it’s not — Ilya just —”

Ilya interjected, and he and Svetlana had a brief exchange in Russian that ended with them both laughing. But this wasn’t like a locker room or something; Shane was comfortable in the knowledge that whatever Ilya might have said about him would be teasing and good-natured.

He shot them both a look, smiling slightly as he said, “I’m going to have to learn Russian a lot faster now, aren’t I?”

“I think so, yes, moy podozritel'nyy kotenok.”

“At least you can tell me what he calls me now, right, Svetlana?” Shane said over his shoulder.

“I can,” Svetlana said. Her head tipped to the side as she pursed her lips. “But I think it is more fun if I do not,” she decided. “I will tell you his little names for you are very funny.”

“You should see, Sveta!” Ilya said. Aside from plucking olives from the jar to pop into his mouth, he hadn’t contributed much to this dinner, so far. “He makes this face —” Pausing, he scrunched up his features rather ridiculously. “And he gets very red, like pomidor. This is why he is moy serdityy kotenok.”

“No I don’t,” Shane said. His face heated as Ilya and Svetlana each gave him a pointed look and he realised he was, in fact, frowning quite heavily. “Oh, fuck off.” Only somewhat in a bid to shift the focus, he pointed to the small mound of potatoes he had diced. “How many?”

Ilya just shrugged. “There is no number.”

“I cut up four,” Shane said. “Four is the number.”

With a small twist of his lips, Ilya gathered up the diced potatoes and plopped them into a large bowl. About two-thirds made it inside; the rest scattered along the counter.

A loud chopping sound drew Shane’s attention to Svetlana, who was now cutting into the onion with a knife. He wasn’t sure where she had gotten it, though it was significantly smaller than the one he had.

“I’m fine,” she said before Shane could even say anything. Pointing the knife at Ilya, she said, “I’m not weak like him,” before getting back to chopping.

“Weak?” Ilya said, sounding outraged.

“Da, Canada has made you weak,” she said, though there was a teasing lilt to her mouth. “Teper' vam dostatochno probku ponyukhat'.”

Ilya muttered under his breath as he pushed a pile of carrots towards Shane.

“How many?” Shane asked.

Once again, Ilya only shrugged. “How many feels right.”

Shane stared down at the cutting board, hesitating. There were significantly more carrots than there had been potatoes, but he wondered if he should cut approximately an equivalent amount.

“Ah,” Ilya said as he pulled a large pot out of a cupboard. He quickly pushed it onto the stove in favour of sauntering over to drape himself against Shane’s back and nuzzle at the side of Shane’s throat.

“Moy priveredlivyy kotenok likes his instructions,” Ilya said.

Shane just rolled his eyes; he was familiar with Ilya’s teasing about how diligently he followed recipes, even for things Ilya decided should be simple. One of the first times Ilya had stayed the night at Shane’s, he had walked into the kitchen the next morning wearing nothing but Shane’s sweats as he blearily rubbed at his eyes. Seeing Shane carefully measure frozen fruit had been, apparently, quite amusing. Shane could still remember Ilya’s sleep-roughened laugh against his ear when Shane said that of course he always measured everything like that, and why would he stop just because he had been making the exact same smoothie every morning for years? Ilya had teased him by grabbing a handful of blueberries and throwing them into the blender, which only served to prove Shane’s point, because the smoothie had turned out too thick for optimal drinking.

With a considering noise, Svetlana regarded them with a tilted head. Feeling a flush of embarrassment, Shane tried to push Ilya away but Ilya remained crowded against him.

“I see now,” Svetlana said slowly. “He is perfect for you, Shane.”

“Huh?”

Chuckling, Ilya leaned forward and smacked a loud, wet kiss against Shane’s cheek that made Shane grimace. “She is saying I am bossy, I think.”

“Oh,” Shane said, smiling a little even as he wiped off his cheek.

Returning to the stove, Ilya said, “Shane likes being bossed very much.” In case his sultry tone didn’t communicate effectively enough, he threw in a pointed wink as he reached for a bottle of oil and upended it over the pot, sloppily waving his hand around.

“Ilya,” Shane hissed, face heating.

“What? She knows we are fucking!”

“No, I know you were fucking,” Svetlana said with a teasing curve at the corner of her mouth. She held her cutting board over the pot and dumped the onions she had chopped into the pot. Over the hot sizzle, she said, “I think if you keep talking, it will be long time before you fuck again.”

“Yes, I should be careful or maybe he will regret this soon.”

“Being with you? Yes, I’m sure.”

The next pass of Shane’s blade was forceful without finesse; it hit the carrot at a bad angle, causing a chunk to bounce off the cutting board and fall to the floor. Svetlana’s tone was light and breezy — teasing, Shane was sure — but the mere suggestion made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“No, that is impossible,” Ilya said with a quick, easy finality that immediately calmed Shane. “I mean you being here.”

“That’s not true,” Shane said. His knife stilled against the board as he looked over. “I’m so happy you’re here, Svetlana.”

With a slight, amused smile, Svetlana tossed the meats into the pot next. Shane was about to turn back to the carrots but his gaze caught on Ilya, watching as steam rushed up from the rapidly-heating food, causing his nose to twitch. He stared determinedly down as he continued to stir, but there was something more than just concentration in his bowed head and pursed lips.

“Shane is why,” Ilya said after a long moment. Shane saw his eyes dart over to Svetlana before turning back to the pot. “He, ah, pushed me to talk to you.”

Svetlana’s head slightly turned as she took in Ilya’s expression too, now. “Da?”

“No, I didn’t,” Shane said, because it was true; he hadn’t known Ilya was even planning to reach out to Svetlana. “I just said he should. That’s all.”

Svetlana moved towards Shane, standing by his side as she grabbed the carrots he had chopped by the handful and dropped them into the bowl along with the potatoes and, confusingly, olives and diced pickles.

“Bol'shoye spasibo,” she murmured, brushing a brief hand against Shane’s shoulder.

“Pozhalusta,” Shane said back.

Svetlana’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “You say it very well.”

“Is very annoying, yes?” Ilya said. “I think it was maybe fifth lesson I gave him, and he came and said yebat’ because I said he cannot swear in English in front of kids.” Ilya glanced up from the pot with an unabashed smile. “His pronunciation was very good. Made me very annoyed.”

“Good?” Shane said. “You said it was bad!”

“You thought that is what I said. I just did not correct you.”

“You let me think —” Shane cut himself off as he stared at Ilya in confusion. “Wait, why would that annoy you? Don’t you want me to —”

“Okay, okay,” Svetlana said. “I don’t want to hear your predvaritel'nyye laski.” To Shane, she asked, “You know yebat’ and pozhalusta but you don’t know the names he calls you? How?”

“He told me not to look them up,” Shane said. There were some names he knew through learning words in other contexts, like lyubov and lyubimyy, but Ilya had never explained anything that would hint to what kotenok or zaychik might mean.

Svetlana’s brows neared her hairline, now. “And you just… listen?”

Shane busied himself with gathering scraps of potatoes and carrots, avoiding Svetlana’s gaze. From her tone and expression, she seemed to find this odd, but he didn’t know quite why.

“I teach him useful phrases only,” Ilya said. Like, ‘zhostche, pozhaluysta.’ ‘Da, gospodin.’ ‘Yebi menya, pozh —’”

“Ilya!”

Struck by some impulse, Shane picked the chunk of carrot that had fallen to the floor and threw it towards Ilya. True to his aim, the carrot sailed over Ilya’s shoulder, breezing right past his ear without touching him, and hit the wall.

“You see this?” Ilya said, waving a hand at the harmless piece of vegetable. “Everyone thinks he is so nice but he is asshole!”

Svetlana lifted a hand and stared down at her nails. “Twenty dollars and I did not see anything.”

“Done,” Shane quickly agreed, breaking into a smile as Ilya let out an offended noise.

“You two are — what is word, Shane? You are in team against me.”

“In cahoots?” Shane guessed.

“Yes, that,” Ilya agreed, giving them both a half-hearted glare. “Big assholes, you two. One day I will tell everyone.”

“I can’t wait,” Shane said, staring down at the scraps of food he had gathered, thinking of a day when Ilya could talk openly to other people about Shane.

When they returned to the living room, Ilya tried to insist they all share the couch (“You two are bread and I am yummy inside, like sandwich!”), but Shane was just as insistent that he could bring a chair in from the kitchen instead.

The dish turned out to be a soup called solyanka, which was rich in flavour with a uniquely sour tang that burst across his tongue. It was incredibly salty, too, and Shane finished about half his bowl before he set it aside in favour of replenishing with plenty of water. He had already met his macros for the day, and he didn’t want to risk edema slowing him down during practice tomorrow.

With nothing else to do, he settled back into his chair and took in the sight of Ilya gesturing through rapid-fire Russian, eyes bright and smile almost unceasing. There was a simple pleasure in watching his ease; the way his head would tip back with the force of his laughter, open and loud. But Shane felt a slight pang, too, as he thought of how difficult it must be for Ilya, having to always filter his interactions through a second language for the past few years.

More than ever, he was filled with determination to learn Russian — not just singular words simple phrases, but to fluency. The thought of one day getting to converse with Ilya in his native tongue, to hear and understand the natural cadence of his speech without the impedance of translation, was nothing short of an honour.

Ilya was laughing again as he reached out and squeezed Shane’s leg. He had done that repeatedly; reached out and grabbed Shane’s hand for a moment, or rested his hand on Shane’s knee. Shane thought it might be his way of keeping Shane connected in the moment, as if Shane was not content to see Ilya’s happiness and perhaps absorb some of the warm radiance in his expression through mere proximity. It didn’t occur to him that the simple fact of Ilya being able to reach out and touch him, in front of someone else, might be reason enough to do it.

This time, though, he turned out to actually want something.

“Shane, Shane!” Ilya said, squeezing Shane’s leg again, as if he did not already have all of Shane’s attention. “Show Sveta pictures of me and Yuna and David.”

“Oh,” Shane said, a bit surprised by the request. Even though he only had photos that could be passed off as platonic, entirely non-incriminating, they were kept in a password-protected folder that was buried deep within various other folders on his phone. It took him a moment to pull it up, but he found a collection of pictures taken at his parents’ cabin that summer.

He listened, mouth stretched almost painfully wide, as Ilya told Svetlana all about Yuna and David, and how he was their most favourite son. Shane is second favourite, but, very far down.

Svetlana had a similar expression, though a bit more reserved. “You look so happy, Ilyusha,” she said.

“I am,” Ilya said, voice and smile almost unbearably soft. “Moy Shenya has given me a whole family.”

“Fuck,” Shane said quietly as something prickled behind his eyes. He felt a light tapping against his knee and, without looking up, grabbed Ilya’s hand and twisted their fingers tightly together.

Hours passed like that, until Shane was politely stifling so many yawns that his jaw ached. He stood up and a small, private part of him was gratified by the way Ilya stopped speaking instantly, seemingly mid-sentence, his eyes instantly drawn to Shane.

“It was lovely meeting you, Svetlana,” Shane said, holding out his hand. He watched, a bit confused, as Svetlana eyed his hand for a moment before finally reaching up to shake it. “I’m pretty tired. I should head home.”

“Home?” Ilya said.

“Yeah?” Shane said. “My apartment, Ilya.”

“You will not stay for the night?”

“Uh, well…” Shane flushed, unsure of what to say. He wanted to stay, but not with Svetlana here. The night they had spent at his parents’ cottage for Ilya’s birthday had proven two things to Shane: one, he and Ilya could not be trusted in each other’s proximity for a single night without them fucking; and two, when the inevitably fucking occurred, Shane would not be capable of being quiet.

“Please, don’t leave for me,” Svetlana said, holding up her hand. “I know how our Ilyusha is in bed and I do not want to hear that all night. I should go check into my hotel.” Turning to Ilya, she gently patted his cheek. “I will see you tomorrow?”

“Da,” Ilya said. “Come, I will walk you to your car.”

Shane’s mind was so stuck on what Svetlana had said, he barely even tensed when she held his arms and leaned in to give him a farewell kiss to each cheek. It was a slow agony waiting as Ilya walked her to the front door and out to a sleek, bright-red, sporty-looking sitting outside; a rental, probably. He wasn’t sure how he had missed it on the way in.

Ilya took his time circling the car with a low whistle. He slid into the passenger seat, running a hand over the dashboard and pointing at something in the console. Shane might have felt a flare of impatience had Ilya’s excitement not been so evident.

“I will allow you back tomorrow,” Shane heard Ilya say as he finally stepped out of the car. “If you let me take a drive.”

Svetlana’s reply was too quiet for Shane to catch, but he offered her a brief wave just before Ilya shut the passenger door. As soon as Ilya was back inside his home, Shane said, “What did she mean that she knows how you are in bed?”

With a contemptible smirk pulling at his mouth, Ilya closed and locked the front door. “Ah. You are jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.” It came out a bit more heated than Shane had intended, and he had to clear his throat. Very casually, he said, “I’m just… curious.”

Ilya’s quirked brow spoke volumes of his skepticism. “We used to fuck, yes.”

“Oh,” Shane said. At his side, one of his hands spasmed, fingers itching to curl in towards his palm. With some effort, he managed to keep his hand flat against his thigh. “Uh-huh. Cool.”

Ilya’s smile was widening, now. “Oh, you are very jealous. You wish you did not tell me to talk to her after all, hmm?”

“No,” Shane said, immediate and vehement. Then something in him deflated, a little, and he said, softer now, “No, Ilya, of course not.”

“Okay,” Ilya said. “Good.”

He held out a hand, beckoning Shane towards him. Shane, helpless, slipped his hand into Ilya’s and leaned towards him. Long moments were lost to Ilya’s mouth on his but as heat pooled in his groin, so too did something tight and hot build in his chest. He thought of the easy touches Ilya had shared with Svetlana as they sat on the couch tonight, bodies curled towards each other; the way she could make Ilya laugh so easily and openly; the memories and entire language they shared.

With both hands anchored on Ilya’s chest, Shane forced himself to pull away from the kiss. Immediately, his gaze was drawn to Ilya’s mouth, glistening and red, yet he found it within himself to ask, “Was it good?”

“With Sveta?”

Shane just nodded.

“Hollander, I was sixteen, seventeen. Was long time ago.”

“Yeah, it was.” With a pulse of something red-hot, Shane said, “Must have been memorable, huh?”

Ilya groaned, head falling back until it collided with the door with a gentle thunk.

“Were you two, like, dating?”

“No,” Ilya said. “No, it was never like that with us. Was just fun.”

“It was just fun between us, too,” Shane said. “For a while.”

“No,” Ilya said again, firmer this time. Shaking his head slightly, he grabbed Shane’s face, cradling Shane in his warm, large hands. “It was always different with you, even from the start, moya polovinka. For me, at least.”

“Oh,” Shane said. It was more of a breath, really; a startled, pained breath, pulled from deep within his chest. “Fuck.”

He pulled Ilya against him with a tight, desperate fistful of curls, groaning in delight even as Ilya’s teeth clacked against his with the urgency of it. He had always known he wasn’t Ilya’s first, of course, and it wasn’t like Ilya’s was his, either; not entirely, at least. But it was gratifying to know that there was something unmatched between them — and perhaps that, in its own way, was a first.

It was with that thought in mind, of firsts, that Shane once again pulled away. Over the petulant sound of Ilya’s groan, he said, “I’m clean.”

Ilya looked him up and down, slowly. “Yes,” he agreed. “You are always very clean. Why are you telling me this?”

“No, I’m…” Shane bit his lip. “I — um, I got tested. For STDs.”

Even though he had barely been in contact with Samantha long enough for something to even be transmitted, probably, he had gotten tested. Not immediately, but some time later, after he had come to the realisation that Ilya was the only person he would ever want to be with again.

Ilya blinked at him a few times, which made him want to squirm nervously. He settled for twisting his fingers in Ilya’s hair as his gaze dropped to Ilya’s cheek.

“Like sex diseases?”

“Yeah,” Shane said.

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Yes, me too. I also got these tests. I am — clean.”

Shane might have laughed at Ilya’s stumbling, eager English if he wasn’t so desperately hanging on to every single word. Instead he had to take in a breath, centring himself against a growing, deep ache within himself before asking, “Have you ever fucked without a condom?”

“No. Never.”

“Never?” Shane said, surprised.

“No.” Ilya’s eyes narrowed slightly as he flicked Shane’s nose. “And yes, that includes Sveta.”

“I. That’s not what I —”

“You are very bad liar,” Ilya said. “I have told you this before, Shane.”

“Shut up,” Shane said. “Can we —”

The words were barely out before Ilya was on him, lips crushing his with bruising force. “Yes,” he said, or at least that's what Shane felt against his mouth.

It was a hectic blur, stumbling their way to the bedroom. He supposed they didn't actually need the bedroom — Ilya, unlike Shane, was comfortable leaving bottles of lubricant all over his place. But there was a certain sanctity in reserving a moment like this for a bed instead of the nearest wall, or the couch, or fuck, even the floor. A bed allowed the space to savour the moment in time, without the impatience of aching knees or a cold, hard surface.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groaned just as the backs of Shane’s knees hit the bed and Shane sank down, tugging Ilya towards him. “You don’t know how long I have thought of taking you like this.”

“Really?” Shane said. He thought of all the times he had barely restrained himself from blurting out those same kinds of thoughts. “You have?”

“… Yes,” Ilya said after a slight pause, eyeing Shane with an inscrutable look. “What, you think you don’t drive me fucking crazy?”

The words danced over Shane’s skin, enveloping him in a warmth that settled down into his core. Happiness bloomed in his chest along with something deeply possessive. He settled a hand on Ilya’s neck, contemplating the curve of his throat. His smooth skin. The thudding of his pulse under Shane’s thumb when he shifted his grip just so.

“Do you still have that concealer from when I, uh, bit your hand?” Shane asked, a little mumbled, in part because he was transfixed by the movement of his own thumb, back and forth, across Ilya’s pulse; and in part because he was still a bit embarrassed about that whole incident, even so many months later.

“You mean the one hundred you bought?” Ilya said. “Yes, I have not used them all, somehow.”

That was a ridiculous exaggeration — Shane had bought twenty. Having shown up with bruises to more than one photoshoot over the years, he had heard the word ‘concealer’ enough times to know that was what he had needed. But his knowledge ended there and so when it came to ordering some online, for anonymity of course, he had found himself overwhelmed by all the makeup types, and brands, and so many different shades that seemed to fit Ilya’s skin tone yet claimed to be somehow different.

Shane’s teeth sank into his bottom lip at the same time that he pressed his thumb down into Ilya’s skin. “I want to mark you tonight.” Glancing up before quickly looking away, he said, “But don’t cover it up around Svetlana.”

Ilya’s mouth stretched into something tooth-filled and feral. “Oh, I like you when you’re jealous,” he said.

“I’m not jealous,” Shane insisted. “But you’re mine.”

“I know,” Ilya said. Cupping Shane’s cheek, he leaned in for a tender kiss as he slowly tipped Shane back against the bed. “Ty - moyo vso. You are my everything. My world.”

“Please fuck me,” Shane said. Licking his lips, he said, again, “Pozhaluysta yebi menya.”

Ilya groaned, head dropping against Shane's chest. Shane opened his mouth, wondering if his pronunciation was terrible this time, when Ilya said, "Stop talking. Please. I won't —"

"Okay, okay,” Shane laughed. "Go get the lube, already."

"Yes, sir," Ilya said, darting down to give Shane an achingly quick peck before standing up.

Shane made quick work stripping off his clothes but he took the time to carefully fold them, seeking the calming familiarity of routine amongst the many surprises of the night. At his side, he could see blurred movements and colours as Ilya ripped off his own clothes and flung them aside. Then he stood patiently waiting for Shane to finish, holding out a hand in a silent offer to place Shane's folded clothes on top of his dresser, where they would be safe.

Well, probably safe. There was a time when Ilya had fucked Shane against the dresser, and Shane’s clothes had fallen off... And another time when Shane had been riding Ilya so hard that Ilya's bedframe was knocking loudly against the wall, and Ilya claimed Shane was trying to fuck him to death by breaking the ceiling. Which hadn't happened, obviously, though Shane's clothes had somehow found their way to the floor.

Shane’s clothes were out of the way and then Ilya was on him again, this time with the naked promise that nothing would come between them save for the ease of the lubricant in his hand. And while Shane often felt like Ilya put too much time and consideration into preparing him, this time he really meant it. Ilya felt it, too; he groaned with each finger he added, as if he was the one being stretched out instead.

“Hurry the fuck up, Rozanov,” Shane said at the third breach. “I need to feel you.”

Ilya’s head fell, breaths heavy against Shane’s throat. “Da,” he agreed. “Fuck. Yes.” He shifted his weight to settle between Shane’s knees.

“Let me,” Shane said. Snatching the bottle of lubricant from Ilya’s hand, he sat up and poured some into his palm.

“Fuck,” Ilya moaned as Shane slicked up the hard line of his cock. He grabbed Shane’s face with both hands, right hand smearing stickiness across Shane’s cheek, and kissed him. Shane’s touch was meant to be quick and perfunctory but then Ilya’s tongue was slipping into his mouth, and Shane’s other arm found its way around Ilya’s back, holding him close.

“Okay, okay,” Shane said when he finally managed to break apart. “Get the fuck inside me already.”

“Very romantic,” Ilya said. “Is no wonder I fell in love with you.”

“Shut up,” Shane said. “I just don’t want you to finish before we even get started.”

“Me?” Ilya said. Both eyebrows shot up as he pointed at his chest. “You are worried for me?”

Shane shrugged as he leaned back on his elbows. “My dick doesn’t need to be hard for you to fuck me.”

Ilya’s eyes squeezed shut as he muttered what Shane recognised as a short prayer in Russian. “Who created you?” he demanded. “Surely you do not come from sweet Yuna and innocent David.”

“Why is my dad —” Shane quickly held up a hand to silence both Ilya and himself. “No. We are not discussing my parents right now.”

All thoughts fled from Shane’s mind as the head of Ilya’s cock pressed against him. Familiar thickness and bluntness were joined by new sensations of warmth and unmistakable silky-smoothness.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane moaned, one hand flying to wrap tightly around his cock as he felt himself spasm. Ilya had barely breached him but Shane’s muscles were hot and tight, and it felt like his heartbeat had relocated entirely to his hole, throbbing and fluttering around the tip of Ilya’s cock.

“So fucking wet, moy zaychik,” Ilya said. His gaze flickered between watching himself feed his cock into Shane’s hole and the head of Shane’s cock, already leaking profusely. “Don’t come yet.”

“I’m not,” Shane sniped, though he had to tighten his grip on his cock as Ilya sank in by another two glorious, hot inches. “Fuck,” he muttered, lifting his other hand to bite down on his knuckles.

“No, no,” Ilya said. He reached up to pull Shane’s fingers from his mouth and Shane made a small, desperate noise, torn between holding onto Ilya’s hand or shoving Ilya’s fingers into his mouth instead.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Ilya said. His breathing was already ragged and he looked up at Shane with wide eyes and red, wet lips. “Moy lyubimyy,” he said, voice edged with a broken pleading, and Shane nodded, quickly, as he fumbled for Ilya’s hand until their fingers were tangled together in a sweaty, tight grip.

“I know,” he said. “Kiss me?”

Ilya gave one last parting glance between Shane’s legs before shifting up towards Shane’s mouth. The movement caused his cock to sink deeper within Shane, as well, until the first brush of their lips brought his hips flush against Shane. Shane could only clutch at Ilya’s hand and the bedding, eyes fluttering, overwhelmed, as he gasped into Ilya’s mouth.

“You are always this tight?” Ilya said, voice strained.

“I-I can try —”

“No,” Ilya said immediately. “Fucking amazing.”

With Ilya flush against him, Shane’s shaking thighs could finally wrap around his back. His ankles locked around each other tightly, leaving Ilya little room to move to actually fuck him, but Shane didn’t think he could tolerate it, anyways; the thought of even a few inches of space between them, even temporarily, was unbearable.

“Gonna fill you up,” Ilya said, nose brushing along Shane’s burning cheek because Shane was a lost cause to any attempts to kiss right now. “I need to move, lyubimyy.”

Shane was aware of his leg muscles tightening, somehow pulling Ilya even closer against him. He must have made some noise, too, because Ilya was suddenly peppering his face with kisses and making soothing noises.

“Okay, okay,” he murmured. He squeezed Shane’s hand achingly tight as his other hand settled on Shane’s thigh, rubbing at the tense muscles there. “Why you are so fucking strong?”

“Hockey player,” Shane gasped. His body was rendered to an aching wound as Ilya loosened the grip of his legs and managed a few inches between them. Then he slammed forward, bare cock gliding along Shane’s walls.

“Best in whole fucking world,” Ilya said, and Shane wasn’t entirely sure if he was still talking about Shane as a hockey player, or possibly about Shane as a hole to fuck, but either option had him crying out as his abdomen clenched painfully tight.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck me, please,” he said, voice trembling with desperation.

“Hollander, I am trying,” Ilya said, grunting as he fought against the pressure of Shane’s legs once again.

“Okay, okay, sorry, I just…” But nothing, not even a biting order from Ilya, could have made his leg muscles relax. His knees were locked, inner thighs burning, and feet flexed from the tightness in his calves and Achilles heels.

“No, is okay,” Ilya said. His fingers slapped lightly at Shane’s cheek, silently demanding Shane look at him. Shane’s mouth trembled with the effort to look up into his soft, warm eyes. “You can come, okay?” His smile twisted, not cruel but promising. “Doesn’t matter, right?” I will still fuck you.”

A few more thrusts carved from Shane’s uncooperative body, and he became aware of a tight grip around the base of his cock — his own hand. He hadn’t let go this entire time, leaving the backs of his fingers now dripping with precome.

Lifting his head, he craned his neck to stare down at his cock and take in the dripping wetness. It made him think of Ilya’s cock inside him. Of Ilya’s precome already smeared inside him, getting fucked deeper inside with each thrust. Of Ilya’s come, hot and thick when it would finally mark him —

“Fuck, fuck,” Shane groaned, muscles screaming in protest as he forced his fingers to relinquish their tight grip. Without that constriction, Shane’s cock pulsed with an urgency that curled his fingers and toes and arched his back. “I’m — Ilya, oh, god, I’m coming.”

“That’s it, yeah, just like that,” Ilya said, his hips only working harder and faster now that Shane was powerless with orgasm. Each forward snap made Shane hiss from the bright shock of sensation and he reveled in it, knowing Ilya could just take and take from him.

“Wait, wait,” Shane said, and Ilya immediately froze. He stared down at Shane with a comical expression, jaw slackened and eyebrows raised incredulously. Shane released his shaking legs from around Ilya’s waist, muffling a groan into his pillow as Ilya’s cock slipped from him, and turned over.

“Like this,” he said, settling onto shaky knees. He didn’t bother trying to put his weight onto his hands or even his forearms; he pressed his chest down into the mattress, leaving his hips and ass up.

Instead of clambering on top of him immediately, Ilya wasted precious time caressing his ass and thighs all while providing rather embarrassing commentary and praise about his hole. It might have lasted less than thirty seconds but to Shane it felt like eternity before he pushed in, leaving Shane unable to do anything but keen as his fingers clutched at his pillow.

Ilya’s hands grasped at his hips, angling them slightly, and then he was nailing Shane’s prostate, every thrust bringing agonising, full-bodied ecstasy. Shane’s body was singing like it was made for nowhere else in the world except underneath Ilya’s weight.

“Feels so good, baby,” Shane gasped out.

He felt the faltering thrusts of Ilya’s body before his ears registered Ilya’s choked groans. 

“Yes, yes,” Shane said, reaching out behind him and slapping his hands blindly until he could grab onto some part of Ilya’s body and hold him close. “Come inside me, please, please.”

The first hot burst inside him had Shane’s muscles clenching tight, willing Ilya’s come to fill him up as deeply as possible. Groans of da and like that and a sharp blyad! were distant echoes amongst the sharp slapping of Ilya’s skin against his.

Soon Ilya slumped forward, his weight a welcome blanket across Shane’s back. But of all the things Shane might have expected next, it was not Ilya’s laughter suddenly puffing against his ear.

“What?” he said.

“‘Baby,’” Ilya said. “You never call me this before.”

“So?” Shane said. He tipped his head, sinking further into the pillow as his cheeks burned. “Felt right.”

A loud, smacking kiss was planted against the back of his neck. “I love it. You should call me this always. No more ‘Ilya.’”

“Whatever,” Shane said though he smiled into the pillow, secretly pleased.

Ilya’s hips began to shift, almost like he was testing the movement, and Shane wondered if Ilya could fuck him again so quickly. But that idea was shattered when Ilya planted a firm hand on Shane’s back and started to pull away.

“Do you have to?” Shane asked. It was definitely not a whine, even if his voice had a similar-sounding pitch.

Ilya’s hand soothed up and down his back. “I don’t think you will like it tomorrow morning, lyubimyy,” he said.

Sometimes Shane hated how much Ilya understood him even though, as Ilya had predicted, he knew he would be grateful for it in the morning.

Ilya continued the slow, dragging withdrawal from Shane’s body. They both groaned when the head of his cock finally eased out, and Shane immediately clenched against the aching emptiness.

“Easily, lyubimyy,” Ilya murmured, his hand still rubbing at Shane’s back.

“What? I’m not doing anything,” Shane said.

“You are so tight.” Ilya’s voice was lightly admonishing as he smacked Shane’s ass. “Loosen. Open your hole. Let me see.”

“Open my —” Shane wheezed, unable to even finish that statement. “God, just shut up. I can’t think with you saying those kinds of things.”

There was a pause and then, in a sulky tone, Ilya said, “That is no way to talk to your baby.”

Shane groaned loudly.

“Okay,” Ilya said, light with laughter now. “I will be quiet.”

He was, surprisingly, other than some soft, curious-sounding noises as his fingers twitched against Shane’s ass. With deep breaths — in four, hold four, out four, hold four again — Shane felt his body slowly sink into relaxation. His upper body relaxed well before his thighs and ass finally began to ease, too, and it was then that he felt the first warm drip.

Something seized at his chest, not quite as urgent as panic, and he only registered it in its sudden absence as a finger dragged along his skin and then pushed into his hole. There was a very quiet wet sound that should have been humiliating but instead had Shane biting back a moan.

One finger became two, shallowly pushing in and out at first but gradually picking up speed.

“Does it feel good?”

“Yeah,” Shane said even as his face twisted in discomfort. Because it did feel good, just not physically; not entirely. But the physical sensations were meaningless compared to how full he was, of Ilya’s love and care and devotion, until his chest felt fit to burst and tears prickled at his eyes. “I love you.”

Ilya’s fingers paused as he pressed a kiss to Shane’s lower back. “I love you,” he said.

It inevitably happened, of course, that Ilya was over one evening when someone unexpectedly showed up at Shane’s apartment.

“Hayden,” Shane said flatly as he opened the door to Hayden and his twin daughters, Ruby and Jade. Shane was pretty sure they were four years old. Maybe five? They were definitely already born before Shane was drafted, at least. “Uh. We don’t have plans, do we?”

Hayden’s brows raised incredulously. “Good job making us feel welcome, buddy!”

Shane winced. “Sorry, it’s just, I kind of –”

Without waiting for an invitation, the girls darted under his outstretched arm and raced into his apartment.

“Shit.”

Hayden frowned as he, too, pushed his way into Shane’s apartment. “What’s wrong?”

Before Shane could respond, they both heard a voice from inside: “What are you little monsters?”

“I… have a guest,” Shane said. Glancing from Hayden to the hallway, he contemplated the possibility of retrieving the girls without raising further suspicion. With a heavy sigh, he motioned Hayden to follow him to the kitchen.

“Rozanov?” Hayden said, confusion evident, when they found Ilya crouching down and talking to the girls in a serious, hushed tone.

“You tell me you are not little monsters,” Ilya was saying. “But what is this? You bring with you biggest monster of all!”

The girls giggled. “That’s not a monster!” Jade said.

Nodding vigorously, Ruby said, “That’s our daddy!”

With a clearly critical gaze, Ilya looked Hayden up and down. “No, not possible.”

“Uh, girls?” Hayden said. “Why don’t you go entertain yourselves in the living room for a little bit?”

“I will keep my eyes on you!” Ilya called as they rushed out, causing them to erupt into giggles once more. But as he stood up to lean casually against Shane’s counter, the playfulness drained from his expression. “Hello,” he said.

“Hayden Pike,” Hayden said, sticking his hand out. “You might not remember me but I’m Shane’s teammate. I actually took a couple lessons –”

“Yes, I know,” Ilya said. “Metros’ fifteenth best player.”

Hayden made a scoffing sound as he threw up his hands. “Man, I was trying to be nice but you’re as much of a fucking dick as I remember,” he said. “I don’t understand how you’ve taken lessons with him for so long, Holly!”

“Hayden,” Shane said sharply.

“You mean you don’t know what is like to be good hockey player who can —”

“Ilya,” Shane cut in. “Seriously? You’re not helping!”

“Look, I don’t know whatever the hell this is, but —

“Nothing!” Shane said quickly. “It’s nothing. It’s not anything.”

“Hollander made stupid bet with me,” Ilya lied smoothly. “He lost, so, he must make me dinner.”

Hayden’s expression grew even more perplexed. “Since when are you a betting man, Holly?”

“I’m not,” Shane said, crossing his arms with a growing frown. Couldn’t Ilya have come up with something else? “That’s why we bet dinner, not money.”

“Well, what was the bet?”

“Hollander bet me that Scott Hunter is only fifty years old, not one hundred thousand.”

“Scott Hunter of the New York Admirals?” Hayden asked. “I’m pretty sure he’s, like, not even thirty.”

Groaning, Ilya’s head tipped back. “Do Metros only hire most boring players? No, I bet him Admirals will lose three games in a row.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hayden said. “That’s a pretty safe bet but Holly’s always really liked Hunter.”

“What?” Ilya said sharply as he turned to Shane

“I don’t like him!” Shane said. “I just think he’s good at hockey. The Admirals have some weak players, that’s all.”

“There are no weak players,” Ilya said. “Only weak captain. It is captain’s responsibility to, ah.” He made a rapid hand motion. “Beat them until they are good?”

“What?”

“He means whip them into shape,” Shane explained.

Hayden just frowned. “Dude, you just said I’m one of the worst on my team. Isn’t that Shane’s fault, then?”

“Yes, one of the worst,” Ilya said easily. “Bad. Not weak. This is different problem.”

“Could you just…” Shane sighed, tugging at his eyelashes as a thrum of anxiety built under his skin. His plans for this evening had not included listening to his best friend and his secret boyfriend bicker at each other. “We were about to have dinner.”

“Oh, no worries man!” Hayden said. He offered Shane the sweetness of relief for all of ten seconds before clapping him on the back and saying, “We’d love to join you!”

“That… wasn’t an invitation,” Shane said to Hayden’s retreating back as he strode towards the living room to retrieve the girls.

Ilya just snickered.

“Ah-ah,” Ilya said, grabbing a hold of the serving bowl of brown rice and drawing it away from Jade’s reaching hand. “There is monster poison in here.”

The girls looked at each other and giggled before turning back to Ilya. “We’re not monsters!” they said in near unison.

Ilya eyed them for a moment before giving an exaggerated shrug. “Okay,” he said. “If this is true, you will be safe.” The girls grinned eagerly as Ilya piled brown rice, grilled chicken breast, and roasted vegetables onto their plates. Pouring au jus on top, he stage-whispered, “With extra monster poison.”

“I’m not scared!” Ruby declared before scooping up a big portion.

Leaning towards her, Ilya watched with a critical, narrowed gaze as she shoved the food into her mouth and chewed open-mouthed. Then she swallowed and stuck out her tongue in triumph.

“Okay,” Ilya said. “Maybe you are not monster. But what about your sister?”

Shane’s attention was pulled away from the girls’ response by Hayden’s voice. “Thanks for having us over, man.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Shane said. He hadn’t exactly been given a choice and as much as he might usually enjoy talking to Hayden, there was something about watching Ilya’s sweet antics around children that was making his stomach kind of flutter.

“Arthur’s got another cold,” Hayden continued to explain. “Jackie finally got him down to sleep and we didn’t want to risk the girls waking him up, so…”

“So you couldn’t handle watching your own children for a few hours?” Shane guessed.

Hayden huffed, cutting into his chicken breast with a scowl. “Of course I can! But they missed their uncle Shane.”

“Obviously,” Shane deadpanned, because the girls had only offered Shane’s polite attempts at questions two- or three-word answers before always turning their attention back to Ilya.

“Your baby is sick?” Ilya said.

Hayden eyed him for a second before saying, sounding oddly defensive, “Just a cold.”

“In Russia, we put babies outside to sleep in even the coldest parts of winter. You should try,” Ilya said. “Will make him stronger.”

“... Is he joking?” Hayden asked, holding his knife up to point at Ilya’s blank expression as he turned to Shane.

“I really don’t know,” Shane admitted. The stories he heard about Russia had only gotten crazier ever since Ilya’s friendship with Svetlana had rekindled, and Shane had begun to worry they were more often true than not. This, at least, was rather tame.

“Of course I am joking!” Ilya said. “No one does this.” Shrugging slightly, he added, “Anymore.”

“What the fuck,” Hayden said.

Shane rubbed at his forehead. “Swear jar, Hayd.”

Shane had hoped that Hayden wouldn’t linger after dinner, especially after Shane informed the girls that he didn’t have any ice cream or other dessert to offer them. But it seemed Ilya had something else in mind, given he was currently chasing them around the apartment in a game that involved entirely too much shrieking.

“So, um, is this like community outreach?” Hayden asked as they settled into the living room.

“What?” Shane said.

“Rozanov,” Hayden said, jerking his head towards the growling monster sounds that carried in from down the hall. “He need a friend or something?”

There was a small crumpling sound as Shane’s grip tightened on his can of ginger ale. “You know, he’s really great once you get to know him,” Shane said.

“Right,” Hayden said, drawing the word out. Then he laughed, shaking his head a bit. “Honestly, man, you should’ve seen the look on your face when you first opened the door! Thought maybe I was interrupting some hot date.”

With a flare of panic, all Shane managed was an, “Uh,” then immediately had to clear his throat from how scratchy it sounded. He was saved from responding any further by Ilya bursting into the living room with one of the girls hanging from his outstretched arm as the other clung to his leg.

“Help, help!” he shouted. Both girls laughed as he gently shook himself, as if trying to dislodge them. “Little monsters are eating me!”

“No, we’re not,” one of the girls said.

“Daddy, don’t help him!” the other said.

“Hey,” Hayden said, throwing up his hands. “I’m not getting involved. You’re on your own!”

Ilya groaned dramatically and collapsed to the ground, careful and slow, making sure neither girl was in danger of being crushed under his weight. “I am defeated! Monsters have won!”

The girls scrambled to stand, clutching each other as they stared down at Ilya’s prone form. It meant they were dangerously close when Ilya suddenly jumped up and reached out towards them with fingers curled into would-be claws. Shrieking, the girls fled the room with Ilya hot on their heels.

Hayden snorted and took another sip of his drink. “I’m surprised he’s so good with kids.”

“You know he teaches kids,” Shane said, because in Hayden’s short-lived lessons with Ilya, he had also been subjected to the kids’ group lesson set-up.

“Yeah, and he was a complete dick to them!”

“He’s like that during lessons,” Shane said. He tried to tamp it down, but his mouth threatened to stretch into a smile as memories of those first few lessons — Shane’s confusion and frustration that eventually gave way to respect and, much more dangerously, curiosity — filled his mind. “He’s really nice once the lessons are over. Plays games with the kids and gives them all treats. He even —” And this time, Shane was as incapable of fighting off a smile as he was of stopping himself from talking. “He always brought a special gluten-free snack for one of the kids.”

With a growing warmth to his cheeks, Shane’s gaze dropped to the ginger ale in his hands. In the silence that followed, the weight of Hayden’s gaze felt significantly heavier.

After dinner while Ilya and Shane brought the dishes into the kitchen, Ilya had tugged on Shane’s elbow and told him, very seriously, that the good vodka — which he now kept a bottle of here, mostly for when Shane’s parents visited — was not to be served to Pike. Shane had agreed, if only because he worried that him owning a bottle of Russian vodka would raise even more questions. Now, though, he wished he hadn’t listened; maybe it would have helped distract Hayden, just a little bit.

“Uh, I’m just saying…” Shane said awkwardly. Then, with no plan for where that sentence was going, he took a giant sip of ginger ale and silently wished for the end of the world, or something useful like that.

“Daddy, daddy!” the girls shouted, running into the room. Hayden grunted as they clambered onto the couch and climbed all over him. “Uncle Ilya says he can give us skating lessons!”

“Lessons?” Shane said as Hayden said, “Uncle?”

They both turned to Ilya, who sauntered into the room with a wide grin. His curls were a complete mess, scattered around his head like a frizzy halo.

“Ilya, you don’t have to do that,” Shane said.

Ilya just turned to Hayden, mouth stretching into a grin. “What, you are scared, Pike?” he said, as if it was Hayden, not Shane, who had just spoken.

“Scared of what?”

Shane watched as Ilya affected a too-casual shrug. “Scared lessons from figure skater will turn them into something, maybe.”

“Turn them into what? Figure skaters?”

“Yes, or maybe turn them —”

“Hayden’s not like that, Ilya,” Shane said. He did not like the look Ilya was giving Hayden out of the corner of his eye — slyly casual on the surface as he carefully gauged Hayden’s reaction.

“Not like what?” Hayden said, looking between Shane and Ilya with each girl tucked under one of his arms. His eyes widened as realisation hit him. “Wait, you think I’m —” He leaned forward, trying to cup his hands over his daughters’ ears as he hissed, “Homophobic?”

“What’s that?” Jade asked. “Ho-hobo —”

“No, girls, that’s a bad word,” Hayden quickly said.

“Is not bad word,” Ilya said. “Is bad thing, yes, but not bad word.”

“It’s both. I don’t want my kids learning that kind of thinking, Rozanov,” Hayden said sternly.

“Hmm,” Ilya said, lips pursed. “Maybe you are in wrong career, then.”

“Okay, you two, that’s enough,” Shane said. “Seriously.”

“Wait, are you even…? I thought that’s just a stereotype.”

It took Shane a few seconds to realise what Hayden was asking. He was absolutely mortified but Ilya only smirked and said, “You want to find out, Pike?”

“What the fu —”

“Swear jar!” Shane said as he pushed to stand, physically putting an end to this conversation. “And it’s way past their bedtime, isn’t it?” He didn’t even bother to fake a glance at his watch; he didn’t know what the kids’ bedtime was, or if they even had a bedtime. It sounded plausible, though.

Luckily — if Shane could dare call anything lucky after this evening — Hayden just sighed and nodded. Ruffling the girls’ hair, he nudged them off the couch. “Say goodbye to uncle Shane and, uh, Rozanov."

Shane’s goodbye was rather lukewarm compared to Uncle Ilya, as the girls still insisted on calling him, who was tackled to the ground with the ferocity of their hugs.

Shane walked them to the door alone after giving Ilya a sharp glare and motioning him to stay, not unlike someone might signal a dog, possibly. “I hate you,” was the first thing he said once he shut and locked the front door.

“You love me,” Ilya said back, materialising in the hallway with a frustrating little smirk. “But moya lyubov', you have to stop acting so — suspicious.”

“What are you talking about?” Shane asked. “Don’t act like I was the problem tonight!”

Ilya’s arms crossed as he silently watched Shane. “I think is okay that we are friends, yes?”

With a sigh, Shane pushed away from the door and took a single step towards the hallway. “Yeah, I just… wasn’t expecting it,” he said. “And, I mean, we were having dinner together!”

Ilya gasped, loud and sharp and overly dramatic. “Friends cannot have dinner?”

“Shut up,” was all Shane said, walking briskly now to brush past Ilya.

“What, you have never had dinner with Hayden?” Ilya said, following Shane.

“Of course I have!”

Shane paused and turned around once he no longer sensed Ilya behind him. He found Ilya stopped a few feet away, face tight as he glared at Shane. “When?”

“Oh my, god,” Shane groaned as he turned back around. “Fuck off.”

“What? I am just asking question, Shane!”

“Whatever,” Shane muttered as he continued towards the stairs.

Ilya’s hand fell on his shoulder, usually a warm and welcome gesture, but he brushed it off as something twisted guiltily inside him. It was only at the threshold of the bedroom, Ilya unusually quiet behind him, that Shane found himself physically able to say, “He’s the only one who’s defended you, you know. Over the years.”

“Defended me?” Ilya said. “From what, attack?”

Shane’s jaw shifted as the words slowly worked themselves from his head to his mouth. “Whenever the other guys say shit about you. Like, you know…”

The heat of Ilya’s presence burned against Shane’s back as he took a step closer. “Like what? Cocksucker? Fag?”

“Don’t —” Shane flinched, hearing the accent he loved so much giving shape to the same jeering words Shane had heard thrown around countless times in locker rooms and on the ice — at others, at Ilya, at himself.

“Sorry,” Ilya said, very softly. His hands were just as soft on Shane’s shoulders in a silent request to turn around. Shane gave in, slowly shuffling around even as the heaviness of shame weighed down his eyes.

“I didn’t,” he tried. He had to pause to lick his suddenly dry lips. “Ilya, I couldn’t. I-I know I should have, but…”

“Shh,” Ilya soothed. Grasping Shane’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, he gently nudged until Shane’s gaze flicked up once, twice, enough to see that Ilya’s gaze was gentle and his mouth a soft almost-smile. “Is okay, lyubimyy. I understand. Is scary, yes?”

Shane nodded. Ilya’s smile widened, just a little, and that simple gesture filled Shane with such lightness, it was hard to feel burdened by guilt. He had spent so long trying to avoid drawing attention to himself in that regard; it was only recently that something had changed in him, snapped, prompting him to throw down his gloves and fight the last asshole who had thrown one of those words at him on the ice. But even still, he was plagued by a feeling that he was treading dangerous waters, having to strategically choose when to push back.

“I’m a little annoyed though, because you have told me reason I should hate Pike little less,” Ilya said.

“Yeah, whatever,” Shane muttered. He was about to turn around and tug Ilya to the bedroom when Ilya’s grip on his chin tightened.

Ilya’s eyes flickered over Shane’s face. After a moment, he said, “You want to tell him about us?”

It was nothing new, the way Ilya could anticipate things Shane had yet to even articulate. But it was so unlike anyone Shane had ever known, even his own parents.

“I mean, maybe,” Shane said, trying to sound casual although that was, in fact, something he had wondered. “It might be nice. And if you two could be slightly less assholes to each other, even friends, actually…”

“Maybe we could be friends, too,” Ilya said, nodding a little. “In public.”

“It’s not like anyone’s going to accuse Hayden of being gay,” Shane said. “He’s already talking about wanting a fourth kid. So if it’s okay for him to hang out with you, it should be okay for me, too, right?”

Ilya opened his mouth but seemed to rethink whatever he was going to say. Leaning forward, he gave Shane a chaste kiss. “Okay,” was all he said.

“Okay?” Shane repeated. He had expected Ilya would need a lot more convincing. Possibly even some bribing — of the sexual variety, of course, which was a prospect Shane had found kind of hot.

“Hollander,” Ilya sighed. His fingers spread out to fan across Shane’s cheek. “I trust you. You say he is safe person and that is enough for me. Besides, he is a little slow, I think. He will probably not know we are together even if we fuck in front of his eyes.”

“Ilya!” Shane exclaimed. He looked away but it did little to hide the way his cheeks burned at the thought.

Ilya raised one brow very, very slowly as he stared at Shane. “You want it,” he said. “My little pervert. You want me to fuck you in front of big audience?”

“I’m not a pervert,” Shane said, shoving Ilya’s hand from his face as he began walking backwards, trying to put space between them. “You’re the one who said it!”

“Yes, but you want it,” Ilya said, smirking as he lunged forward and wrapped Shane in his arms. “This is real reason you want him to know, hmm? Maybe one day we invite him over for dinner, real invite, and while he is eating I take you to bathroom and fuck you.”

“That’s not happening,” Shane said, half-breathless as he stared at Ilya’s mouth.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Ilya said, which was not in the least bit reassuring. “But is fun to think about, yes?”

“A little,” Shane admitted. “Now stop talking and fuck me already.”

Ilya grinned. “Yes, sir.”

It had been a couple years now since Shane had first met a rude figure skating coach who refused to learn his name while putting him through the humiliation of group lessons with a bunch of children. A couple years since Shane had been introduced to a world where sexual encounters were more than closing his eyes and gritting his teeth until it was over; a world where he not only wanted to be there, actually wanted sex, but longed for it like an all-consuming ache that bloomed from the depths of his very being.

He and Ilya had spoken once, of the finiteness of this thing between them. Until then, they had promised, waiting for the day Shane would meet a woman he really liked. One he could, well, actually enjoy sex with.

Shane had known for a long time, now, that such a day would never arrive — certainly not with any woman, but not with any other guy, either. Ilya Rozanov had ruined him for anyone else, perhaps since that very first hook-up. Maybe before then, even, from the moment Shane had first laid eyes on him.

Shane couldn’t come out yet, and Ilya would not feel fully comfortable until he had the security of a Canadian passport. But with Shane’s parents and Svetlana — and possibly Hayden, too, one day soon — they had enough spaces where they could feel at home with each other.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough for them. Certainly far more than Shane had ever thought he could have. Things like Ilya having to move to Ottawa in the future, and the pressure and publicity of Shane’s career, were slowly feeling less and less like insurmountable obstacles and more like minor hurdles for him and Ilya to tackle as a team.

Even if it took years, even until retirement, Shane would happily wait for the day he could walk down the street holding Ilya’s hand, and get down on one knee and propose, and maybe, depending on how Ilya felt about it, talk about possibly having kids. It was a future he had once thought he wasn’t supposed to be allowed, but together, he and Ilya were carving out a path for it anyways.

Until then, Shane vowed to himself, though the meaning of those words shifted now, filling him with anticipation instead of dread — no longer a deadline but the promise of a new beginning.

Chapter End Notes

Moy lyubimyy — my love
Moё serdtce polno lyubvi — my heart is full of love
Lyubov' vsey moyey zhizni — love of my life
Konfetka — candy (the phrase Ilya wanted was ‘eye-candy' lol)
Moy zaychik — my little bunny
V nogakh pravdy nyet — there is no truth in (your) legs (meaning to sit down and make oneself at home)
Zadirat' nos — turn up one's nose; become arrogant (I was trying to find a saying similar to 'get a big head' in English)
Moy podozritel'nyy kotenok — my suspicious kitten
Pomidor — tomato
Moy serdityy kotenok — my angry kitten
Teper’ vam dostatochno probku ponyukhat' — now, it’s enough for you to smell the cork (meaning he's a lightweight)
Moy priveredlivyy kotenok — my fastidious kitten (trying for 'fussy' 😭)
Bol'shoye spasibo — thank you very much
Pozhalusta — “you’re welcome” or “please” (both meanings used in this chapter)
Yebat’ — fuck
Predvaritel'nyye laski — preliminary caresses (meaning foreplay)
Zhostche, pozhaluysta — harder, please
Da, gospodin — yes, sir
‘Yebi menya — fuck me
Moya polovinka — my other half
Ty - moyo vso — you are my everything
Blyad — whore (‘fuck’)
 

Thank you SO much to all the readers and commenters. Your support means everything to me, and your feedback is gladly welcome! I hope the ending was satisfactory, and I’m excited to move onto other Hollanov fics!

My tumblr :)