Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Wyatt Hayes, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Carter Vaughn

Additional Tags:

Jealous Ilya Rozanov, All-Star Weekend, Never Have I Ever, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, Shane is a little brat and everyone including Ilya loves it, Secret Relationship, Shane Hollander Is a Menace, Sexual Tension, but they’re good at sex

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-06 Completed: 2026-03-07 Words: 20,013 Chapters: 2/2

Off the Record

Summary

Ilya Rozanov generally enjoys the All-Star Weekend.

The All-Star Weekend means fun and games, and Shane. Lots of Shane.

But when a drunken game of Never Have I Ever reveals more than Ilya ever expected, the entire league discovers there’s more to golden boy Shane Hollander than anyone realised.

Unfortunately for Ilya, he discovers it too.

Notes

Chapter 1

All-Star weekend always makes Ilya feel slightly detached from his own life.

It is loud, brash and intense in a way that regular NHL travel only is during the playoffs. Every hallway is filled with players from different teams wandering around in expensive sweatpants and hotel slippers, able to socialise without feeling like they’re being caught behind enemy lines. 

Not that Ilya really has enemies. The league might view him as Public Enemy No. 1, but Ilya likes most of the players he meets. Generally, anyway. There’s the odd few who piss him off so bad that the slams he ends up initiating may not always be entirely clean, but as a whole? They’re alright. 

The league loves the All-Star weekend. Cameras everywhere, interviews, the promise of fans seeing the best players in the world pretending they are friends. 

Ilya likes it too, though he will never say that out loud.

Mostly because it means he gets to watch Shane Hollander exist in the same building as him without the rigmarole of tense games and media obligations, the league always pitting them against each other to get a glimpse of their rivalry before forcibly ripping them apart like they don’t mean anything to each other. 

Ilya has already seen Shane twice today.

Once across the lobby, where Shane had been talking to two reporters while holding a paper coffee cup that looked comically small in his hand. Probably some bullshit ristretto with the most minimal amount of liquid but maximum amount of caffeine. No dairy, of course.

It had only taken a few moments before Shane glanced up, like he knew Ilya was staring at him, and the corner of his mouth had twitched. The kind of smile Shane always seemed to have around Ilya in public. 

The second time had been in the hallway outside the elevators.

They had passed each other like normal. Like rivals, even.

Shane had said, politely, “Rozanov.”

Ilya had answered, just as calmly, “Hollander.”

Then Shane had leaned a little closer as they passed, voice dropping just enough that no one else would hear.

“Behave tonight.”

Ilya had not answered.

Mostly because he had immediately decided he would absolutely not be doing that. And also because he fucking loved it when Shane roleplayed this version of himself. Good boy Shane Hollander, who is perfectly polite to his rival, but then drops nukes on Ilya like he can't help but tease when he knows no one is watching. 

Ilya is a simple man – but Shane drives him mad in all the best ways.

Now, he’s at the arena, the lights so bright, they burn through Ilya’s retinas. Though he really should be used to it after more than a decade as a professional in the sport. 

There’s something about All-Star skills that always look strangely theatrical, at least compared to real hockey. When the lights sweep across the stands like they’re searching for something dramatic, Ilya stares towards his team, a mish-mash of NHL superstars, both rooks and veterans, teetering on the edges of their seat, as if they’ve been picked to represent their country. 

It was another East vs West scenario, and Scott Hunter had been picked (again) as their captain. This had also meant that Ilya was on the same team as Shane, once again. 

Not for today though. Today was all Player vs Player.

He leans against the boards, folding his arms as he watches the first skater glide out to centre ice.

Fastest Skater always started the night. It’s exciting in a way that the other events aren’t, at least to Ilya, but that’s mostly because the crowd immediately understands what they’re looking at. Speed. Nothing else, no trickery involved. The jumbotron flashes a replay of last year’s record – Vincent Lemaire from the Minnesota Nomads (but only because Ilya wasn’t there, healing from a hamstring injury) – while the announcer builds up the tension like this is somehow the most important race any of these men will ever skate.

Ilya watches with polite but mostly indifferent interest.

The first skater launches forward.

The crowd roars immediately.

Ilya tracks the movement automatically, without really thinking about it. Years, decades of hockey have trained his eyes to follow edges and acceleration on instinct. It’s a pretty clean run with tight turns and good speed all the way through.

Respectable.

Behind him, someone whistles softly.

“Not bad.”

Ilya glances over his shoulder. Cliff Marlow has seemed to drift over at some point, resting his forearms casually on the boards as he watches the timer update on the screen.

“Good edge control,” Cliff adds, nodding toward the ice.

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. It’s been awhile since he’s hung out with Cliff, but it always feels like no time has passed when they catch up again. Cliff had been his only real friend back in Boston, and while Ilya had dropped the ball on the friendship aspect when he moved to Ottawa, Cliff has taken it as good-naturedly as possible, accepting him back into the fold so readily, Ilya feels kind of bad about it.

They stand there for another run, the two of them watching the next player line up while the crowd settles back into their seats.

Across the rink, players are scattered along the boards while they wait for the next opponent. All-Star weekend always seems to dissolve any sort of team structure. Instead of benches divided by jerseys and mascots, it’s just a strange mixture of rivals and former teammates leaning towards the clear expanse of glass.

Shane is standing among them near the right side of the bench.

He looks relaxed, one hand resting loosely on the top of his stick while he listens to something Sam Guthrie is saying. Every now and then he laughs quietly, pushing a loose piece of hair away from his face with the back of his glove. 

Ilya feels a pang of affection so strongly in his chest, it almost burns.

The events blur together quite quickly after that, and Ilya is up for Hardest Shot.

He skates out under the lights with the same focus he would bring to a normal game, even though the whole thing is technically meant to be entertainment. It’s definitely a way to handle the momentum and pressure he feels burning into the back of his skull. The puck sits patiently on the dot while the jumbotron flashes to life above, grounding him into the freezing ice.

He can hear someone whistling from the boards. “Don’t break the net, Roz.” The voice sounds haughty and joking.

Ilya ignores them – he knows when he should listen, and when he should not. Instead, he plants his feet, winds up, and fires.

The crack of the shot echoes through the arena like a small explosion, the puck hammering into the back of the net so hard the mesh contracts against the frame.

For a split second the building is quiet. Then the radar number flashes across the screen and the crowd erupts so raucously, he can barely hear anything else. 

Ilya barely glances at it. Instead, he looks across the rink.

Shane is standing near the boards with a few other players waiting for the next event to start. Even from this distance, Ilya can see the faint lift of his eyebrows before Shane claps a few times against his glove in approval.

As Ilya skates off, he can’t help but let a wide grin rise across his face. 

Hardest Shot always tends to be one of the louder events, which means everything that follows feels slightly less impressive, even when it probably shouldn’t. It feels even less impressive when Ilya is the one doing Hardest Shot, so what is even the point of watching the rest?

Accuracy Shooting gets a few strong runs and one spectacular miss that sends the puck sliding a good distance past the net, and even Ilya cringes slightly when the crowd groans loudly. 

Shane competes in Accuracy Shooting. And of course he does well.

The targets pop one after another with clean, quick shots that make the whole thing look way easier than it actually is. By the time the last puck snaps into the final corner of the net, the crowd is already cheering before the announcer has even finished shouting his name.

Shane lifts his stick briefly in acknowledgment, looking a little embarrassed by the attention before he skates away.

Ilya rolls his eyes. So fucking humble and annoying. And also extremely hot. 

The rest of the night passes the way these things usually do — a few more events, a lot of noise from the stands, and the crew dragging a couple of players toward centre ice for interviews once everything finally wraps up. Ilya hasn’t had an extremely amazing season for the past couple of years, so he doesn’t have to worry about being dragged into the spotlight like some other fools, needing to appease the carnivorous reporters with practiced media training.

When he steps out of the showers, he can hear Sam Guthrie talking about a room that has been booked in the hotel they’re all staying at. A room that could host a lot of the NHL guys for some after event fun. The penthouse suite. 

To be fair, Guthrie had won last year’s Art Ross trophy, so Ilya understands why he probably feels like an absolute badass, at least enough to upgrade his room to the penthouse suite. 

Ilya doesn’t have any intention of joining, not in the slightest, not until Wyatt Hayes has snuck up behind him, tapping him on the shoulders with a wide grin.

“Coming to Guthrie’s?”

“Are you?” Ilya asks, but it’s more out of politeness than anything else. He definitely had other plans for tonight. With Shane, and definitely not in a young rook’s penthouse suite.

With some put-on nonchalance, Wyatt shrugs. “Probably. Half the guys already said they were going.”

That sounds about right. Hockey players are not particularly complicated creatures when presented with three very obvious options: go to sleep, go somewhere that requires multiple instances of travelling, or gather in one room together with alcohol and make progressively worse decisions. It really isn’t all that difficult to predict what they would pick. 

Ilya pulls his shirt over his head, towelling his hair once before tossing the rag somewhere with, what Shane would consider, diabolical indifference. Shane would fume. 

“You should come,” Wyatt adds, leaning against the wall like he’s trying not to care if Ilya comes or not. It’s kind of sweet. “It’ll be fun.”

Ilya hums noncommittally. He can still feel the excitement running through his veins of meeting with Shane as he always does, but he can’t lie and say that catching up with the guys from the other teams doesn’t intrigue him even slightly. They don’t often get to catch up, and even Scott Hunter’s here this year. Ilya can’t resist a little chirp or two even off the ice against the ultimate Gay Patriarch. 

Not that Scott knows about the Gay Synod he has bubbling underneath his fingertips. Which include both Shane and Ilya. And maybe a few others that Ilya doesn’t have the right to guess for. Unless he is drunk, and then he has all the right to guess. 

“I will think about it.”

Wyatt grins like he knows exactly what that answer means. “You won’t.”

Ilya does not bother responding. Wyatt doesn’t know shit. At this point in time, not even Ilya knows if he’s coming or not. It’s all up to God. 

Shane Hollander, that is.

The bus ride back to the hotel is short and loud. Ilya sits next to Cliff without too much fanfare. Sometimes, with the way the league continues to flourish, new rookies every season, it feels like he’s already lived a lifetime in this hockey universe.

He can hear someone near the front already talking about Guthrie’s penthouse suite like it’s an official afterparty, insisting at least fifteen guys were coming.

Ilya feels old. 

When they step out of the bus and into the hotel, the corridor is already crowded with players heading toward the elevators. Sam Guthrie is at the centre of another small group near the elevator doors, looking extremely pleased with himself while someone claps him on the shoulder.

Apparently winning the Art Ross trophy does wonders for a man’s confidence. Or perhaps it is the penthouse suite.

Either way, the elevator doors open and a small wave of players pile inside like this was always the plan. Ilya finds himself swept along with them before he has actually made a decision, which is how he ends up leaning against the back wall while someone from Vancouver loudly insists that Guthrie is absolutely going to regret letting this many people into his room.

“Relax,” Guthrie says from somewhere near the front. “The suite’s huge.”

Ilya does not particularly care whether the suite is huge. He is already pulling out his phone while the elevator ascends, typing out a quick message.

Ilya: Penthouse party apparently

The three dots appear almost immediately.

Shane: I heard

Ilya: You going

There is a short pause. Then –

Shane: Maybe

Ilya stares at the screen for a moment before sliding the phone back into his pocket. Sometimes, Shane is really bad at texting.

Cliff is standing somewhere to his left, looking relaxed in the way veterans get when they’ve been through enough of these weekends to know exactly how they end. Generally, not sober at all, and slightly regretful. Though, Ilya has to admit that he’s been quite good for the past five years or so, reeling in a side of himself that he knows can get a bit rowdy, perhaps more rowdy than he generally wants to be.

Across from them, Guthrie is still talking animatedly to a couple of guys from Tampa, gesturing with his hands like he’s explaining a very important game winning strategy instead of simply hosting a party upstairs.

The elevator stops again. Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughn both squeeze inside, which should not physically be possible but hockey players have spent their entire careers rushing into tiny spaces to fight over pucks, all while wearing an unreasonable amount of equipment.

Ilya checks his phone once more out of habit, but Shane hasn’t added anything else. Typical.

The elevator finally dings. 

“We’ve reached the penthouse guys!” Someone nasally announces this in a way that makes Ilya want to descend immediately. He sounds so bubbly too, like they’ve just reached the summit of Everest.

He checks his phone again just to make sure Shane hasn’t told him his room number. God.

The doors slide open and the entire group spills into the hallway in a crowd of team branded hoodies and extremely expensive sneakers.

The music is already audible. And for a second, Ilya is impressed. He doesn’t really know how Guthrie had gotten this all set up while they were competing in the skills comp. But clearly he had this planned out, hours, if not days beforehand.

The bass is strong enough that Ilya can feel it through the carpet as they start down the corridor.

“Well,” Cliff mutters beside him, nudging Ilya in the elbow. “He wasn’t kidding.”

When he walks through the penthouse door, someone laughs, someone else shouts something about tequila, and the general atmosphere suggests that tonight is going to be a much more eventful evening than Ilya had initially expected it to be.

It’s this thought that makes him pause. Mostly because he didn’t really decide to come here, and sort of just… ended up here. Somehow. Which is exactly how a lot of his most questionable decisions always begin. 

He steps in and looks across the large space. It’s beautiful, the living area stretching across an extremely large wall of clear glass overlooking the city skyline. The furniture has been pushed slightly out of space, probably to encompass the large amount of bulky NHL players clearly coming to the event. Ilya sees at least fifteen players already scattered through the space. A few are sitting cross-legged around a coffee table like they’re about to start a team meeting for tomorrow’s game, while others are spread throughout, several leaning against the kitchen counter where someone is already rummaging through a fridge that was definitely not designed to house enough alcohol for this many professional athletes.

Ilya watches as Guthrie walks through like a man extremely satisfied with his life and its choices. And for the first time tonight, Ilya can’t even shit on him.

“Drinks are in the kitchen,” he announces, spreading his arms slightly like a king commanding his people. 

When Ilya turns his head, he stops for a moment when he sees Shane standing towards the glass doors over the suite, listening to something Scott Hunter is saying with the kind of politely attentive expression that has made reporters adore him for years. His hair has dried at the ends into a slightly messy wave, and he’s still wearing the same dark hoodie from earlier.

God damn, Ilya thinks. Shane is always so fucking gorgeous, it’s almost painful.

For a moment, Shane doesn’t notice him. He’s still listening to whatever Scott Hunter is saying, head tilted slightly in that way of his that makes it look like he’s actually absorbing every word instead of just waiting politely for the conversation to end. He’s drinking a beer, drawing the bottle to rest almost provocatively at his plush lips.

Guthrie should look at this and froth in his fucking grave. Shane Hollander drinking mid-season? This party must be an unmissable rager, otherwise it just doesn’t make sense.

Then, Shane’s eyes lift. It’s subtle, the shift in his attention, but Ilya catches it immediately. Shane’s gaze glides across the room almost absentmindedly before it lands on Ilya properly.

The corner of Shane’s mouth twitches.

Ilya feels a stupid grin begin to pull at his own face before he can stop it. 

Well. Maybe coming here was not such a terrible decision after all.

He drifts further into the room, weaving around a couple of players who have claimed the couch like some possessory item, intending to stay there the whole night. Someone presses a drink into his hand as he passes the kitchen counter, which he accepts mostly as reflex before chugging at least three-quarters of the… whiskey mix (?) down. 

Cliff appears beside him again, glancing around the room with the somber approval of an old man who enjoys a good gathering but refuses to admit it out loud.

“Not bad,” he says, nodding toward the windows. “Kid’s doing alright for himself.”

Ilya follows his gaze briefly. The city lights outside make the whole place glow faintly, which is probably very impressive to someone who has not spent the last decade sleeping in various luxury hotels across North America.

“Hmm,” Ilya replies. He doesn’t want to give Guthrie too much credit. There’s a lesson in humility here. Somewhere. 

Across the room, Shane is still near the glass door, though the conversation with Scott seems to have ended. He glances over again briefly, just long enough to confirm that Ilya is still standing exactly where he had been a moment ago.

Then he looks away. Which is also very typical Shane behaviour. It makes Ilya feel slightly feral inside. 

He loves the push and pull of their relationship. Knowing that despite all these men talking to Shane tonight, knowing how gorgeous and amazing and talented the man is, Shane is all his. 

Ilya takes a sip of his drink to remove any and all dirty thoughts, and nearly grimaces. It’s strong enough that Ilya wishes someone had diluted it with anything but alcohol. As soon as he thinks it, he knows immediately, that such a notion is basically sacrilege. He swallows the sip down and forces himself to remain mostly neutral looking. Even if it was 90% alcohol, he didn’t want to lose his reputation as the Russian man born to consume even the most fucked of drinks.

A reputation he has definitely spent a long time cultivating. 

There are a lot of young idiots scattered around Guthrie’s penthouse tonight, including Sam Guthrie as well. Bright faces, new contracts, fresh All-Star picks, where receiving notice of the selection probably still meant something to them. The kind of players who still feel slightly dazzled by the fact that they’re standing in the same room as Ilya, Shane, Scott, and other names they grew up watching on television.

Ilya has not felt dazzled in a very long time.

Not when Scott Hunter is standing ten feet away, laughing loudly about something Carter Vaughn has just said, both of them looking exactly like the same veterans who have been orbiting this league for as long as Ilya can remember – and then some. Cliff is beside him with the same relaxed posture he’s carried since Ilya had first joined the Boston Bears, and Wyatt Hayes has already dropped himself cross-legged onto the carpet like his old man bones gave out in 2016.

And Shane? Shane is standing near the windows, still nursing that beer like it personally offended him.

Across the room, Carter Vaughn suddenly raises his voice above the noise, holding a bottle of something brown and expensive, waving his arms around to capture all attention.

“Alright,” he announces. “If we’re all going to stand around pretending this isn’t an afterparty, we might as well commit to it.”

Scott Hunter laughs immediately. Because of course he would. What a good teammate. “Oh no,” he says, already sounding amused. “What are you about to suggest?”

Vaughn grins, and Ilya almost winces. Except he doesn’t because this party is boring and maybe it’s true that whatever Vaughn is about to suggest will at least spice the evening up somewhat. 

“Never Have I Ever.”

“Boo.” Ilya says instantly, voice loud enough to carry throughout the room. “Boo,” he says once more to get it out of his system. “Boring. Very boring. We high-schoolers, Vaughn? Surely, you haven’t been concussed enough to have all good ideas disappear?”

Vaughn turns his head slowly toward him, bottle still hanging loosely in his hand.

“Jesus, Rozanov,” he says, squinting like he’s trying to decide whether Ilya is serious or just being an asshole for sport. “You walked in here thirty seconds ago.”

“And already I see problem,” Ilya replies easily, taking another small sip of the drink he still hasn’t properly identified. It burns less now, which is either a good sign or a terrible one. “This game is for teenagers hiding vodka under bleachers.”

Scott snorts loudly from beside Vaughn. “Oh please,” he says. “Like you didn’t play this game a hundred times when you were younger.”

“I did,” Ilya admits. “Which is why I know it is stupid.”

Wyatt leans back on his hands from the floor, grinning like he’s personally delighted that Ilya has decided to participate in the conversation at all. “That’s the point,” he says. “We’re drunk, Roz. The stupid stuff is the fun part.”

“We are not drunk,” Ilya says automatically, because even the thought that he’d already be drunk is offensive.

Cliff hums beside him. “Give it ten minutes.”

Which, with the way his drink is hitting, is fair.

Around the coffee table the younger guys are already settling in, dragging bottles closer and shifting around so they’re facing each other properly. They’re excited. Probably excited to spend this time with the older crew from various teams, hearing about whatever stupid shit they’ve all done at least once in their professional athlete lives.

Vaughn spreads his arms slightly. “Look, if the veteran council has a better idea, I’m all ears.”

“The veteran council,” Wyatt repeats, laughing. “What? Like the Avengers?”

“That’s us now,” Scott says, gesturing lazily between himself, Vaughn, Cliff, Wyatt and Ilya like they’re not just barely thirty and still young in normal years. 

“Do not include me in this,” Cliff mutters, though he’s smiling faintly.

Ilya glances briefly across the room again.

Shane has finally shifted away from the windows, drifting a little closer to the circle though he hasn’t actually sat down yet. The beer bottle is still in his hand, the label slowly turning beneath his fingers while he watches the conversation with that same calm expression he always wears when he’s deciding whether something is worth engaging with.

Which usually means he absolutely will engage with it. Just in a very controlled way.

Their eyes meet again for half a second. Shane lifts one eyebrow. You finished complaining?

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose. How annoying.

“Yes, yes,” he says, waving a hand dismissively toward Vaughn. “Fine. We play childish game.”

Wyatt pumps one fist in the air. “Let’s go.”

“But,” Ilya continues, raising a finger now, because if they are going to do this then he will at least establish one rule before the idiots in this room ruin everything within five minutes.

“We do not start with boring questions.”

Vaughn looks intrigued. “What counts as boring?”

Ilya gestures vaguely toward the entire group. “No questions like ‘never have I ever been drunk’ or ‘never have I ever kissed someone.’ This is All-Star weekend, not church youth group.”

Scott laughs again, leaning forward with interest. “Oh this is going to get ugly.”

“Good,” Ilya says simply.

Across the circle, Shane finally lowers himself onto the arm of the couch near Scott, one foot resting casually against the floor as he takes another slow drink from the bottle.

He glances toward Ilya again and smiles. Just a little. Which tells Ilya exactly one thing.

Shane Hollander is absolutely about to make this game worse.

Vaughn rolls the bottle once between his palms like he’s warming up. “Alright,” he says, glancing around the room with obvious satisfaction now that he has everyone’s attention. “Rozanov wants spice, so we’ll give him spice.”

“That is correct,” Ilya replies calmly, sipping on his drink.

“Great,” Vaughn continues, leaning back slightly against the couch beside Scott. “Rules are simple. If you’ve done the thing, you drink. If you haven’t, congratulations on being boring.”

Someone mutters harsh from somewhere near the floor.

Wyatt raises his bottle like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Let’s go then.”

Vaughn looks around the circle for a moment, clearly enjoying the suspense far more than the situation deserves. “Never have I ever,” he begins slowly, “hooked up with a fan.”

The reaction is immediate.

“Oh that’s bullshit.”

“That’s half the league.”

Wyatt looks personally betrayed. “You can’t start with that one.”

“Why not?” Vaughn asks, already grinning.

“Because it’s too easy,” Wyatt says, already lifting his drink.

Around the room several players take swigs almost automatically, the movement casual enough that Ilya suspects this particular question did not require a lot of reflection.

Wyatt drinks. Scott drinks. Cliff drinks like he’s proving a point.

Even Vaughn drinks, but Ilya didn’t even realise that was part of the game. He thought the person saying the thing couldn’t drink if they said it.

One of the younger guys near the coffee table chokes slightly on his beer before recovering with a laugh.

Wyatt raises his bottle toward Scott. “Really?” Because despite everything, Scott Hunter still holds the status of New York’s teacher’s pet. 

Scott shrugs, completely unapologetic. “I was twenty-two once.”

“You still are mentally,” Vaughn mutters.

Ilya watches the whole thing with quiet amusement. He takes a small sip.

Across the room, Shane has not moved.

He’s still sitting on the arm of the couch beside Scott, the beer bottle resting loosely in his hand while he watches the room with the same composed and slightly amused expression he’s held all evening.

He hasn’t taken a drink.

Wyatt notices this about half a second later. “Wait,” he says, staring at him. “You didn’t drink.”

Shane looks mildly confused by the attention. “No.”

Wyatt blinks. “You’re telling me you’ve never hooked up with a fan?”

Scott lets out a laugh beside him. “Oh this should be good.”

Shane tilts his head slightly, looking a bit confused, but entirely beautiful. “I don’t date fans.”

There’s a small pause. Then half the room groans.

“Jesus Christ,” Vaughn mutters in a low voice, shaking his head.

“Golden boy strikes again.” Ilya can hear Cliff almost roll his eyes beside him.

Ilya lowers his glass slightly so he can hide the smile that’s starting to creep across his face.

Because the funny thing about that answer is that Shane is not even lying. Shane doesn’t date fans. Shane dates one extremely annoying Russian hockey player who is currently standing across the room watching this entire conversation unfold like it’s the greatest entertainment All-Star weekend has produced so far.

Vaughn looks deeply offended by the general reaction, which immediately makes the whole thing even funnier. “What?” he says, spreading his hands slightly like he cannot believe the lack of appreciation for his incredible creativity. “It’s a perfectly valid question.”

“It’s predictable,” Ilya replies, swirling the remaining alcohol in his glass before taking another careful sip. It still tastes like someone attempted to mix three different spirits and wanted to make sure the recipient died at the end of it, but at this point his mouth is beginning to accept it as reality.

Wyatt leans forward slightly, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that always means trouble. “Alright then,” he says, pointing across the circle toward Ilya. “If that one was boring, you go next.”

A few of the younger guys perk up immediately at that suggestion, clearly intrigued by the idea of watching Ilya Rozanov publicly embarrass someone.

Which is fair. Ilya has a well-earned reputation for that sort of thing.

He lets the moment stretch just long enough to make it uncomfortable, glancing slowly around the circle of players like he’s conducting some kind of very serious psychological evaluation.

Shane is still sitting on the arm of the couch beside Scott, that same faint smile hovering at the edge of his mouth while he waits to see what Ilya will do.

Which is, of course, extremely distracting.

Ilya smiles faintly. “Fine,” he says. He tilts his head slightly, considering the room for another moment before speaking. “Never have I ever,” he says calmly, “woken up somewhere and not remembered how I got there.”

He quickly takes a sip. If those were the rules…

“Oh come on.”

Wyatt drinks immediately, laughing while he does it. He was a single man once.

Scott sighs before lifting his glass like a man accepting a deeply predictable truth about professional athletes and bars.

Alternatively, Cliff drinks with the calm confidence of a man who simply accepts that this is just a formative part of life.

Vaughn drinks too, though he points accusingly around the circle while doing it. Several of the younger players slowly lift their drinks as well, which makes the veterans immediately start smirking. 

“Oh that’s suspicious.”

“I’m twenty!”

“Surely that’s still illegal.”

"I'm Canadian."

Ilya takes another slow sip of his drink, leaning comfortably against the kitchen counter while he watches the chaos unfold.

Across the room, Shane hasn’t moved.

He’s still perched on the arm of the couch beside Scott, the beer bottle resting loosely in his hand while he watches the argument with quiet amusement.

He does not drink. Wyatt seems to notice this in time. “Wait, Hollander didn’t drink.”

Shane glances briefly at the bottle in his hand before looking back up. “No.”

Vaughn snorts, and he takes another sip of his drink, as if he was bragging. “Of course he didn’t.”

Cliff groans loudly. “You think we’ll ever get golden boy to drink?”

Ilya hides another smile behind his glass. Because Ilya is very interested to see how long Shane manages to keep his extremely spotless, good boy reputation intact.

Shane lifts one eyebrow slightly, still leaning against the arm of the couch like the entire conversation has nothing to do with him. “I’m right here, you know.”

“Exactly,” Vaughn says, waving his bottle in Shane’s direction like he’s trying to coerce Shane into drinking. Even without any questions. “And yet you remain untouched by sin.”

“That’s not true,” Wyatt says immediately. “He plays for Montreal.”

Scott snorts loudly before he reaches an arm out to gently pet at Shane’s shoulder. A comforting gesture. Or something along those lines, at least. Scott Hunter is way too nice for his own good.

Ilya watches the exchange quietly, rolling the last of his drink around the glass before deciding he should probably pace himself. The alcohol is starting to settle warmly under his ribs, which is never a good sign when he is surrounded by this many idiots with stupid questions to throw at him.

“Alright,” Wyatt says, sitting up straighter on the carpet like he has suddenly decided the pace of the evening needs to accelerate. Or that this game is not as exciting as he thought it would be. “Rapid fire.”

Vaughn stares at him, frowning. “That’s not how the game works.”

“It is now,” Wyatt replies easily. “Too many players, too much alcohol, not enough time. We go around the circle.”

He points across the coffee table toward one of the younger guys sitting cross-legged on the floor, a rookie from Vancouver whose name Ilya vaguely remembers but has absolutely no intention of recalling right now.

“You start.”

The kid blinks like he’s just been asked to solve one of the many mysteries of the universe.

“Uh,” he says, glancing nervously around the circle before blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “Never have I ever… broken a stick out of anger.”

There’s a collective groan.

“That’s terrible,” Ilya mutters. But several players drink anyway. Including himself.

Wyatt drinks. Scott drinks. Vaughn drinks like he’s personally offended this is even a question, because who hasn't?

Cliff raises his glass with the quiet dignity of a man who has broken far more expensive sticks than anyone in this room.

Shane, effortlessly and unequivocally, does not drink.

The rookie looks mildly relieved he managed to complete his turn without any residual anger or riotous behaviour.

“Next,” Wyatt says immediately, pointing at another younger player.

“Never have I ever skipped a team dinner.”

“We were in Vegas,” Vaughn mutters defensively when Scott raises an eyebrow at him.

“You missed three,” Scott replies, the ever present, all-knowing captain he is. "Each time we found you at a casino.”

The room laughs. Another rookie jumps in quickly before the veterans start arguing about ancient history.

“Never have I ever gotten yelled at by a coach in front of the whole locker room.”

Three-quarters of the circle drinks instantly. Ilya raises his glass and takes a small sip himself, because there have been many coaches in his life and most of them have not enjoyed his personality.

Across the couch, Shane still hasn’t moved.

“Unbelievable,” Wyatt mutters, pointing at him again. “This guy’s still clean.”

Shane lifts his beer slightly, which, to be fair, is almost finished. “I’m drinking.”

“That’s not how the game works,” Vaughn says. “You’re just drinking in general.”

“Rules were very clear,” Scott adds, a small grin on his face.

Shane smiles faintly but says nothing.

Another younger player leans forward eagerly.

“Never have I ever gotten kicked out of a bar.”

“Oh come on.”

“That’s targeted.”

Cliff drinks like he has accepted the inevitability of this outcome. Ilya takes another small sip, mostly out of solidarity with several questionable evenings that took place early in his career. He feels like he hasn’t had the chance to not drink this whole night.

It’s making his stomach feel warm and fuzzy. 

Shane, as Ilya had expected, still does not drink.

Wyatt throws both hands into the air. “How?!”

“I behave,” Shane replies mildly. "Unlike you clowns." He still looks slightly proud of himself. And Ilya loves it. Ilya loves how beautiful, and perfect, and stuck-up, and sweet his boyfriend is.

“That’s disgusting.”

The rookie beside Wyatt is already leaning forward with another question before the room can settle.

The pace of the game begins to accelerate naturally after that, the questions bouncing quickly from one player to the next as the younger guys start getting braver now that they’ve realised the veterans are not above embarrassing themselves.

“Never have I ever argued with the coach.”

“Never have I ever broken curfew.”

“Never have I ever gotten yelled at by a coach so badly I thought I might get traded.”

That one hits. Ilya is still drinking.

Across the couch, Shane still hasn’t taken a single drink for the game. Wyatt stares at him like he’s personally offended by the concept. “This is ridiculous,” he says.

Scott leans back slightly, folding his arms as he watches Shane with clear amusement. “You’re telling me you’ve never done anything interesting?”

Shane tilts his head slightly and smiles. “I didn’t say that.”

Wyatt finally throws his head back dramatically. “I swear to God,” he says, pointing across the circle, “if this man doesn’t drink tonight I’m filing a complaint with the league.”

Scott laughs. “Give it time.”

And for the first time since the game started, Ilya has the distinct feeling that Scott might actually be right.

Because the rookies are starting to look a little too comfortable.

Which is probably the moment Sam Guthrie decides he has had enough of watching from the sidelines. He has been hovering near the kitchen counter for most of the game, occasionally refilling drinks and generally behaving like a man who owns the room.

Which, to be fair, he technically does tonight.

Guthrie steps closer to the circle now, rolling the sleeve of his hoodie up slightly as he raises his drink. “Alright,” he says.

The room quiets a little. Which Ilya finds funny, because Sam Guthrie is still not old enough to legally rent a car if they ever played in a different country. But Art Ross is Art Ross. 

“Let’s make this interesting,” Guthrie continues, glancing around the room with the kind of grin that means trouble.

Vaughn immediately points at him because no one likes an over confident rookie. “Careful.” 

Cliff leans forward slightly, already smiling.

Ilya takes another sip of his drink because something about Guthrie’s expression suggests the next five minutes are about to become very entertaining.

“Never have I ever,” Guthrie says slowly, like he’s considering the words before they escape through his teeth. His dark brown hair is covering the tips of his eyes underneath the curve of his hoodie, “had a teammate walk in on me hooking up.”

“You little shit.”

Cliff drinks, though he does it slowly like he’s reconsidering several life choices. A couple of the rookies lift their drinks with sheepish expressions.

Ilya pauses for half a second. Then he drinks.

Across the couch, Shane finally moves. Just slightly. His fingers tighten a little around the beer bottle while he watches the chaos around the room.

Wyatt, who has been focused completely on Shane this entire evening, notices immediately. “Oh?”

The entire circle turns toward him.

Shane glances briefly around the room, clearly aware that about twenty pairs of eyes are now staring at him. He exhales quietly. “Does it count if they’re from a different team?”

Ilya bites his lip to stop himself from smirking. Poor Ryan Price.

The reaction amongst the league is instant.

“Oh my God.”

“No way!”

Wyatt throws both hands into the air like he has just witnessed a miracle. “Yes, drink!”

Ilya can see the slight tinge of red run up the side of Shane’s neck. Pink blossoms like gorgeous roses rising to his face.

Scott laughs loudly beside Shane, thwacking his hand against Shane’s knee. “Well look at that.”

Vaughn leans forward dramatically, pointing at Shane like he has just uncovered the greatest scandal in NHL history. “Golden boy has a past.”

Shane lowers the bottle again, looking entirely composed despite the chaos he has just caused. And then just shrugs.

Which only makes the room louder. Wyatt is practically vibrating. “Details.”

“Absolutely not. Go fuck yourself,” Shane replies calmly, but he’s grinning now. Ilya wishes he could just pull Shane into his lap and kiss that smile off his face. 

Instead, Ilya watches the entire exchange from across the room with growing amusement, finishing the rest of his drink while the noise continues to rise around them. He has already gotten a new drink, and he’s tipsy enough to make a gin and ginger ale for Shane without even thinking by the time the next question rolls around. 

He walks forward, ignoring anyone watching him and passes Shane the glass. Shane takes it with a gentle nod.

Guthrie watches the reaction spread across the room with obvious satisfaction, like a man who has just reinforced the fact in his head that this is his party. “See?” he says, lifting his drink slightly. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Kid thinks he’s funny,” Vaughn mutters, though he’s still smiling.

Wyatt is still staring at Shane like he’s personally been handed the greatest gift of the evening. “I knew it,” he says, pointing accusingly. “I knew you were hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Shane replies calmly, tilting his head and taking a sip of the drink Ilya made.

“You just admitted someone walked in on you hooking up with a rival team,” Wyatt says.

“That was definitely not the question,” Shane replies immediately, shaking his head.

Scott laughs again, clearly enjoying himself far too much for a man who has spent most of his career projecting responsible leadership. “Oh this is excellent,” he says, leaning back slightly against the couch like he has just settled in for a show. “Please continue ruining your reputations.”

“You first,” Vaughn shoots back.

Scott raises both hands in immediate surrender. “I’m retired from answering questions.”

“You’re literally still playing,” Wyatt says. “Both here and in the NHL.”

“Emotionally retired.”

Cliff, who has been watching this entire exchange with the relaxed patience of a man who has seen this exact scenario unfold about fifty times over the course of his career, leans slightly closer to Ilya.

“Kid opened the floodgates,” he murmurs, nodding toward Guthrie.

Ilya snorts quietly. “He is very proud of himself.”

“He should be,” Cliff replies easily. “First guy tonight to make golden boy blush.”

Across the room, Shane is still sitting on the arm of the couch, looking much calmer than someone who has just admitted to scandal in front of half the league probably should. He takes another sip of the gin and ginger ale Ilya handed him, the glass turning slowly between his fingers while Wyatt continues interrogating him like an overexcited puppy.

“Which team?” Wyatt presses.

Shane raises an eyebrow. “Absolutely not.”

“Same division?”

“Stop.”

“Was it a goalie?” Of course Wyatt would ask that.

Cliff chuckles under his breath beside Ilya, shaking his head. “Hayes is going to get himself punched one day.”

“He has been punched,” Ilya replies. As captain, he’s seen it.

“Fair point.”

Across the circle, Guthrie looks deeply pleased with the chaos he has caused, rocking slightly on his heels as he raises his drink again.“Alright,” he says. “My turn is done. Someone else go.”

Vaughn leans forward immediately, clearly energized now that the game has officially turned messy.

“Oh I’ve got one.” Vaughn glances slowly around the circle, his expression the exact look of a man who has spent his entire career stirring up trouble in locker rooms. “Never have I ever used toys during a hook up.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Vaughn lifts his bottle in a lazy half-toast like a man who knows exactly what he’s done. “Rozanov asked for spice.”

“I asked for interesting,” Ilya corrects mildly. But he immediately takes a sip of his drink, because, well.

Cliff exhales beside him, long and slow, like he has just watched someone throw a lit match into a dry forest. “Well,” he says, glancing down at his drink. “That escalated.”

Several of the younger players freeze for about half a second before a couple nervously lift their glasses as well, which makes the veterans around the circle immediately start laughing.

“Rookies these days.”

“I blame the internet.”

Across the room Wyatt points dramatically around the circle like a game show host. “Look at all of you degenerates.”

Scott leans back against the couch, shaking his head with a quiet smile. “This league is doomed.”

Vaughn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks extremely satisfied with himself.

Then his gaze slides slowly across the room. And stops. On Shane.

Wyatt, the little shit, notices immediately. “Oh?” For the second time tonight.

The room goes quiet again.

Shane is still perched casually on the arm of the couch beside Scott, the gin and ginger ale resting loosely in his hand while he watches the room with that same calm expression he’s worn all night. He looks down at the glass. Then up. Then he sighs.

And drinks.

The room explodes. “No way!”

“You’re kidding. During a hook-up?!”

Wyatt nearly falls backward onto the carpet. “He drank.”

Scott starts laughing again, louder this time. “Well that answers that.”

Cliff lets out a low whistle beside Ilya. “Golden boy’s really having a night.”

Ilya watches Shane set the glass down again with that same small shrug, like this entire situation is mildly amusing but not particularly surprising.

Their eyes meet briefly across the circle.

Shane lifts one eyebrow. Ilya feels a flash of heat boil in the pit of his stomach. Now that Shane’s opened the floodgates, he can’t stop thinking about it. They’ve used many toys over the years. From plugs, to vibrators, to beads, to clamps… the list goes on. Shane loves it. Ilya loves how much Shane loves it. 

It must be the alcohol in his head that is making him forget that he is surrounded by the All-Star league and not just Shane, because he feels himself growing hard in his pants.

Fuck.

Shane looks so hot as well. He’s been chewing on the string of his hoodie, occasionally running a hand through his hair so the strands dry slightly curled under his grasp. 

Ilya doesn’t know why they’ve stayed here this long.

The questions degenerate even further after that.

“Never have I ever done anal.”

“That’s where we’re at now?!”

Wyatt collapses sideways onto the carpet, laughing so hard he has to press his hand against his stomach. “Who said that?”

One of the rookies Ilya can’t remember the name of, and looks entirely too young to be part of this entire conversation, raises his hand halfway like he’s confessing a crime. “What? It’s a normal question.”

Cliff groans beside Ilya, rubbing his hand over his face. “We used to have standards.”

“You did not,” Scott says dryly, immediately taking a sip of his drink. Which, to be fair, makes the most sense out of everyone here. Except for Ilya and Shane, of course.

Cliff pauses. “Okay, that’s fair.”

A few players reach for their drinks, but it’s not as immediate as previous answers.

Cliff sighs and drinks. “I blame road trips,” he mutters.

Ilya lifts his glass as well, mostly because pretending otherwise would be ridiculous. Everyone here knows who he is.

Across the room, Shane glances down at his glass for a moment and then drinks too.

Wyatt notices instantly. “Oh my God.” He sits upright like someone has just handed him breaking news. “He drank.”

Scott bursts out laughing beside Shane. “You’re very invested in this.”

“This is character development,” Wyatt insists, like everyone else should be invested as he is.

Vaughn is watching the whole thing with obvious delight. “Look at that,” he says, gesturing loosely toward Shane. “Golden boy’s secrets are just pouring out tonight.”

Shane sets the glass back down on the arm of the couch, completely unbothered. Ilya finds it incredibly hot.

“I answered the question.”

Wyatt stares at him like he’s personally offended by the concept of Shane Hollander doing anything remotely scandalous. Which Ilya does not understand one bit. 

Meanwhile half the rookies are looking between the veterans like they’ve just discovered a whole new level of NHL lore they were previously unaware of.

Vaughn points dramatically across the circle toward another young star from Los Angeles. “Your turn.”

The kid looks like he has just been handed a live grenade. “Uh.” He glances around the room, clearly trying to think of something that won’t immediately get him murdered by at least three veterans.

“Um…”

There’s silence for a moment. And Ilya thinks the game is over before the kid answers.

“Never have I ever rimmed anyone.”

The silence that rushes through the room makes the kid from LA immediately look like he regrets his life choices.

When Ilya looks towards Shane (and Scott), Scott stares at the ceiling like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him to this penthouse tonight.

Cliff groans. “We are not answering that.”

Vaughn, unfortunately, looks delighted. “This is the best party we’ve had in years.”

Scott drinks. Cliff hesitates for exactly one second before sighing and drinking too. 

Ilya drinks as well, and tries to stop himself from staring at Shane, but he absolutely can’t because heat is flaring up his veins. When he sees Shane, across the couch, glance down at his glass, then drink, Ilya has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from swearing.

Ilya is so fucking hard he tries to adjust in his seat sneakily enough that no one notices. 

Wyatt sits bolt upright. “Four!”

Scott bursts out laughing again. “You’re keeping score?”

“Yes,” Wyatt says. “This is important data.”

Shane sets the glass down calmly like the entire room isn’t staring at him.

Cliff leans toward Ilya again, voice low. “This party’s about two minutes away from getting shut down.”

Ilya watches Shane across the room, the warm buzz in his head making everything feel softer and sharper at the same time. “Probably.”

Across the circle the rookie looks like he wants to vanish into the carpet.

“Okay,” he says quickly. “Next person.”

“Thank God,” Scott mutters.

It’s back at Sam Guthrie now, the man of the hour, and Ilya should have known just from the drunk look on this fucking idiot’s face that they were all walking into disaster with their arms wide open. But instead of doing anything, Ilya sits there, waiting to receive whatever hell this stupid, cocky, fucking idiot, is about to say. 

“Never have I ever done double penetration.”

Guthrie says it like it’s nothing.

Like he hasn’t just thrown a fucking bomb into a room already burning from the remnants of the previous questions. For a second, there’s this strange pause in the room, the kind that only really happens when something so outrageous is said that everyone needs a moment to decide whether they heard it correctly.

Music is still playing in the background. Some EDM shit that Ilya would normally enjoy but is pulsing too hard that it makes the atmosphere feel robotic and inhuman. 

Wyatt lets out a strangled laugh that sounds like it escapes his body before his brain has a chance to stop it.

But the rest of the room freezes instantly.

Scott leans back against the couch and looks up at the ceiling like a man who has just watched his life flash before his eyes. Cliff groans somewhere beside Ilya, dragging a hand slowly down his face as if this entire evening has been one big, entire mistake. Ilya is kind of thinking the same thing.

“You’re insane,” Vaughn says eventually, pointing at Guthrie with the lazy accusation of someone who is half impressed and half horrified.

Guthrie just shrugs. “Just a question.”

Which, technically, it is. Though it’s still absolutely foul. Ilya barely hears any of this.

Because the moment the words leave Guthrie’s mouth, his eyes move almost automatically back across the room.

He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it at first. It’s just instinct now, this constant pull of his attention toward wherever Shane happens to be sitting in a room. A habit that has been building quietly over the last several years until it has become something almost unconscious.

Shane is still perched on the arm of the couch beside Scott, the same way he has been sitting for most of the night. His hoodie sleeve is pushed halfway up his forearm, the glass of gin and ginger ale resting loosely between his fingers as he watches the chaos unfold with that same calm expression he always seems to have.

He looks down at the drink just briefly. And then he drinks.

For a moment, Ilya genuinely thinks he has imagined it. Because that cannot possibly be correct. His brain has started working again and unfortunately it has decided to start doing maths. Very unpleasant maths. Because Shane has never done that with him. 

Not once. 

Which is confusing for several reasons.

The first being that Ilya is extremely confident he would remember something like that. Even in his inebriated state, this seems like something he would know and remember and keep close to his heart for life.

The second being that their sex life has never been… conservative. In fact, thinking about it now, they have done quite a lot of things together. Enough that Ilya has always felt rather smug about it, if he’s being honest. Their relationship has never lacked enthusiasm or curiousity.

“What?” Wyatt practically shouts it, shooting upright from the carpet like someone has just electrocuted him.

“You cannot be serious,” Scott says, wiping at his face. He looks shocked, and horrified, and impressed, and Ilya can’t even read what other emotions Scott is exhibiting right now.

The room erupts almost instantly, voices crashing into each other as everyone processes what has just happened.

Despite all of this, Ilya doesn’t join the noise. Because his brain has stalled completely. Broken. Like a dying machine.

Shane just sets the glass back down on the arm of the couch like nothing unusual has happened, like he hasn’t just casually rearranged all understanding Ilya has had of their relationship in front of the league.

“What?” Shane says mildly. To be fair, he looks a bit embarrassed for once, which he hasn’t looked at all this evening.

Which somehow makes it worse because now Ilya’s brain has started doing something extremely annoying.

Thinking.

Specifically, thinking through several deeply irritating possibilities, none of which are particularly relaxing or wonderful. Or, the worst part of all, include him.

When did Shane do it?

With who?

Why have they never done it?

And perhaps most annoyingly of all: Why is the thought of Shane doing it weirdly hot?

Ilya stares at him from across the room, feeling the alcohol sitting warm and heavy in his stomach now, twisting into something that feels suspiciously like jealousy. Which is ridiculous.

Ilya does not consider himself a jealous person. He has never had much interest in digging through Shane’s past relationships or asking invasive questions about things that happened before they were officially together.

But this is new information. And his brain does not seem to know what to do with it.

Around him, the room is still loud. It becomes even louder when someone in the kitchen turns up the volume, the bass booming through the floorboards so vehemently, Ilya feels it pulsing through his veins. 

The circle seems to dissolve almost naturally after that, the game collapsing under extreme chaos as players drift away toward the bar or the balcony or the couch, but Ilya barely notices. When he finally looks up again, Shane is already looking at him, and there is something in his expression that makes Ilya’s stomach flip unpleasantly. Not guilty, or embarrassed. Just… curious. Like he knows exactly what Ilya is thinking about.

Which is deeply irritating. Especially when Ilya doesn’t know what he’s feeling right now. 

Instead, Ilya exhales slowly, dragging a hand across the back of his neck as he leans back slightly against the wall, because now he has a new problem. He is confused. He is slightly annoyed. He is maybe a little bit jealous.

And, most frustratingly of all, he is still extremely turned on.

Which means there is absolutely no chance he is going to be able to stop thinking about this for the rest of the night.

Why the hell has Shane never suggested it with him?

Which is perhaps the most insulting part of all.

Because Ilya would not have said no.

In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more offended he feels by the fact that Shane apparently decided to explore this particular adventure with someone else first.

Across the room Shane sets the glass down again like none of this is unusual. “I answered the question,” he says calmly at no one. But Ilya can tell that this is not real calm. This is forced calm. Shane is looking downwards towards his drink and not at the men around him.

Shane pushes a hand through his hair. Ilya’s eyes lock on to every single motion, staring at Shane’s now exposed collarbone like a man dying of thirst in the Sahara. 

Their eyes meet across the room and the expression on Shane’s face is unreadable.

Which somehow makes the jealousy burn even hotter. Because now Ilya is absolutely certain Shane can read every single thought written across his face.

And above it all, Ilya cannot stop but have the deeply irritating realisation that if Shane asked him to try it tonight – Ilya would probably say yes.

Ilya drags a hand down the side of his face, pressing his fingers briefly against his mouth as if that might somehow shut his brain off.

It does not work.

Across the room, Shane is still staring at him, and it’s now that Ilya can see how the look in his eyes has changed. Shane’s eyebrow lifts slightly, the smallest flicker of amusement crossing his face before he takes another sip of the drink Ilya made him earlier. The gesture is subtle but Ilya knows that look. There’s an edge to his gaze, something dark and heady. Like he’s ready to be so good and so pliant for Ilya if Ilya would just cross the gap and make the first step. 

Like all he’s doing right now is waiting for Ilya, for this to be all over. 

Which only makes the irritation burn hotter, because now Ilya understands two very unfortunate things at once.

The first is that Shane absolutely knows what he’s thinking.

The second is that if Ilya stays in this room another minute, he’s either going to punch someone — or drag Shane out of this party and find out exactly who the hell got there before him.

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

Shane has known for several minutes now that something is wrong.

Not wrong wrong.

Not relationship-ending wrong. Not even fight wrong. Probably.

Just Ilya wrong. Like the world has shifted and the man has been tipped slightly off his normal axis.  

It started the second Sam Guthrie asked his stupid question. 

Shane had barely even thought before drinking, which in hindsight might not have been the smartest decision of his life. Then, he just kept drinking, and realised that yes, he has done this and yes, he has rimmed someone, someone who is in fact in this room.

Though, to be fair, by that point, half the room was already looking at him in shock like he had just admitted to being a Bears fan. It had felt easier to just answer than to sit there and let Ilya’s teammate, Wyatt Hayes, keep staring at him like Shane was the world’s most complex puzzle. 

It was answering the last question which he now realises was probably the real mistake. Not because the room exploded immediately – Shane did, in fact, expect that. The league had always seemed weirdly invested in the idea that he lives some kind of impossibly wholesome life.

But then he had looked up and saw Ilya.

At first, Shane had thought Ilya was just shocked, which had been fair enough, because honestly, Shane had shocked himself a little too. Going into tonight, there had been exactly zero plans to reveal the more adventurous corners of his sexual history to half the All Stars in Sam Guthrie’s penthouse suite. 

After that, it didn’t take long before the shock on Ilya’s face shifted. It didn’t exactly disappear, just sharpened into something that sat very strangely on his face.

Shane doesn’t often see a jealous Ilya. Mostly because they don’t put themselves into places where jealousy can manifest.

When they can allow themselves a bit of space, Shane sees desire almost all the time. When Shane is on his knees, taking Ilya in his mouth, he sees that desire in Ilya’s eyes – roving over his features with a heat so intense Shane feels like he’s being branded. Moulded, pressed, manufactured to fit exactly where he is meant to be.

But jealousy? Jealousy is rare – something that happens when they are unable to show their love in public. These moments tend to make Ilya go slightly quieter, which is almost always how Shane knows it’s real.

And right now, Ilya has gone extremely quiet.

Shane watches him from across the room while pretending to listen to the chattering among them. A lot of the partygoers have dispersed for the time being, having deemed that Shane admitting to participating in double penetration was a good enough lull to go top up their drinks. 

He can feel Ilya’s attention on him even when Shane isn’t looking directly at the man. It’s a strange, warm pressure, one he has gotten used to over the years. A type of gaze so physical, it almost feels like a soft touch. 

Which is probably why Shane had looked up so quickly earlier.

And there it is again.

That look.

Ilya is trying very hard to seem composed, standing near the wall with one hand pressed against the back of his neck. But after all these years of being together in secret, hiding in hotel rooms, and sneaking away together, Shane can read him instinctively at this point. The set of his mouth is wrong. His shoulders are too tight. His eyes keep drifting back to Shane and then away again like he’s angry at himself for looking.

It is, unfortunately, very charming. 

It is also a little concerning.

Because Shane knows exactly what has upset him, and to address that, they would need to have a conversation. A real one. Not a facsimile of a conversation in Sam Guthrie’s rented penthouse suite next to all of the best players in the league, and where Ilya and Shane are tentative friends but absolutely nothing more than that. 

Across the room, Ilya straightens away from the wall, back stiffening. It is a tiny movement and most people wouldn’t notice it. Shane doesn’t think anyone in this room besides himself notices it. 

But Shane has spent far too many years studying the minute differences in Ilya’s behaviour to miss something as obvious as this.

Then Ilya tilts his head slightly toward the kitchen. The gesture is almost absurdly understated.

It means: come here.

Which is how Shane finds himself finishing the rest of his drink, setting the empty glass down beside the couch, and making his way toward the kitchen with the quiet patience of someone who already knows exactly what conversation is about to happen. He doesn’t get stopped on the way out, too many players around him standing and talking. There’s been enough alcohol poured among them that it seems both Ilya and himself manage to slip away, down throughout the living space and towards one of the spare bedrooms without anyone noticing.

It’s quieter on this side of the penthouse, and Shane slips into a bedroom. Perhaps the third of four? Somewhere far enough that the music from the living room dulls into a distant pulse through the walls. The bass still vibrates faintly through the floorboards, but it feels far away now, like the rest of the world has politely stepped back and has left them alone.

Shane closes the door behind him softly, letting his eyes rove over Ilya’s figure.

He’s gorgeous. Absolutely ethereal. His blonde curls have been styled towards the back of his head, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. He’s wearing a black bomber jacket over a white shirt with a pair of brown chinos. So quietly fine and stylistic, especially compared to most of the men here tonight, dressed simply in team merch, the first thing packed in the back of their duffel bags. 

When Shane lets his eyes move back up Ilya’s figure, he feels his pulse sizzle at the sight of Ilya’s eyes – locked on Shane. 

For a moment, neither of them speak.

Ilya then steps further into the room, turning toward the large window that overlooks the city skyline like he needs something else to focus on. His hand is still resting at the back of his neck, fingers pressing lightly into the muscle there, the gesture unconsciously tense in a way Shane has seen countless times over the years.

It is the posture of a man who is thinking far too hard about something he would very much prefer not to be thinking about.

Shane leans lightly against the door and watches him.

There is something quietly fascinating about observing Ilya when he believes himself to be alone with his thoughts. The public version of Ilya Rozanov is all effortless confidence and sharp wit, the kind of personality that fills a room automatically with a buzz of attention. But it’s moments like this that reveal something softer underneath, that only a few get to see. A sort of restless internal storm that only really appears when Ilya is unsure what to do with the emotions sitting inside his chest.

Eventually, Shane pushes himself away from the door. He walks a little further into the room, stopping a few feet behind Ilya, close enough now that he can see the slight tension in the line of his shoulders.

“You look upset,” Shane says, but he lets his eyes linger on the window, giving Ilya some semblance of privacy in this moment. 

It takes Shane a second to realise that what he said isn’t a particularly great opening. 

Ilya lets out a short breath that might almost be a laugh if it carried any actual amusement. “Do I?”

Shane turns to him, and considers for a moment. Ilya is very close. “Yes,” he says simply.

There is another pause and Ilya finally turns. The expression on his face is exactly one Shane had expected. Composed on the surface, but carrying just enough irritation underneath to make it obvious that something is bothering him far more than he would like to admit.

Ilya takes a step closer. He’s close now, close enough that there’s barely thirty centimetres of distance between them. 

Shane tilts his head up to look Ilya in the eyes, trying not to get absorbed by the swirling mix of green and hazel.

“Double penetration,” Ilya says flatly, voice low.

For a moment Shane simply blinks at him. Not because he had not expected the subject to come up, but because hearing it stated with such severe seriousness feels slightly absurd after the absolute craziness of the past hour. 

“Oh,” Shane says, stupidly. And delayed. Which turns out to be the wrong response.

Ilya’s eyebrows draw together immediately. “Oh?”

“I mean,” Shane quickly starts, shaking his head. “Yes.” He nods. 

“Yes?” Ilya doesn’t sound very amused. 

“What? Do you want me to confirm it?” Shane asks, slightly annoyed now. He knows that Ilya is upset but he wishes the other could just express his feelings directly. They didn’t need to beat around the bush. “It’s true.” 

For a moment, Ilya just stares at him. The irritation on his face deepens, though not in the explosive way Shane has seen during games or press conferences or particularly heated arguments with referees. This is quieter than that. Tighter. 

“Right,” Ilya says eventually, though the word comes out flatter than usual, like he is trying to organise his thoughts and is failing slightly.

Shane waits, knowing instinctively that Ilya has more to say. 

Ilya shifts his weight, glancing briefly toward the window again before looking back at him, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“And this was… when?”

Shane blinks, pausing. Then, he exhales softly through his nose, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth before he can stop it.

Which, unfortunately, turns out to be the wrong reaction.

Ilya notices immediately, eyes locking onto the curve of Shane’s lips. “Oh good,” he says dryly, voice unamused. “You’re smiling now.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You are.”

Shane presses his lips together, which only makes the situation worse because now he very clearly is smiling.

Ilya drags a hand down his face, letting out a deep breath. It seems like some of his previous annoyance has left him. “Unbelievable.”

Shane tilts his head slightly, studying him. He might as well just say it. “You’re jealous.”

The effect is immediate.

Ilya freezes, then he scoffs. “I am not jealous.”

Shane considers him carefully, and the soft smile on his face broadens. He moves close to Ilya, their chests bumping, and raises a hand to reach up to hold Ilya’s jaw. 

In no less than a second, Ilya presses his chin into Shane’s hand, begging to be held. Like he wishes he could be nowhere else. Shane lets his thumb brush at the curve of Ilya’s jaw, feeling the slight graze of stubble. 

“You are,” Shane says again, gently this time, letting his thumb continue to press at Ilya’s face. 

Ilya closes his eyes and lets out a little exhale through his nose, the sound carrying just enough reluctant acknowledgement that Shane knows he’s hit the mark.

For a moment he doesn’t pull away from Shane’s hand. In fact, if anything, he leans slightly further into it, his jaw settling more comfortably into Shane’s palm like a large, disgruntled animal. A bear, probably. A fuzzy, grumbly, Russian grizzly bear.

Then, his eyes open again.

“You find this amusing,” Ilya says, and his lips are slightly pouty. Shane cannot resist the urge to swipe at his bottom lip.

“A little.”

Ilya makes a low, irritated sound in the back of his throat that would probably be far more intimidating if he weren’t currently nuzzling into Shane’s hand like he belonged there.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and stares back down at Shane. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ilya mutters eventually.

Shane blinks. “Which one?”

“When.”

Oh right. Shane had, in fact, successfully avoided that one. He pauses for a moment, mostly because the answer is very simple and somehow still likely to irritate Ilya further.

“Mexico,” he reveals eventually, unable to let this drag on any further. He draws back his hand from Ilya’s face, and ends up pinching at the skin on his left palm. A flash of unease runs through him.

Ilya’s eyes narrow slightly. “That trip with Pike, and the Voyageurs.”

“Yes.”

Ilya exhales slowly through his nose, clearly replaying the memory of the phone conversation in his head. Shane had told him about Mexico years ago, back when they were still not yet official, hovering between sexy hookups and something much more dangerous. 

“You told me about him,” Ilya says slowly, like he’s trying to wrap his mind around this conversation. “Mexico top.”

“Yes.”

“You said he was big.”

Shane nods, unable to lie. “He was.”

“And strong.”

“Also true.”

“And you had sex.”

“Yes.”

Ilya studies him for another moment before his expression tightens again. “But you did not mention… the rest.”

Shane pauses for a moment, wetting his dry lips. “It just… didn’t seem important.”

The words tumble out of his mouth but they feel wrong. It feels silly now to think that this was not important information to tell Ilya. He’s not stupid or oblivious to how this would look. It was just… at the time, they weren’t even together, so it felt weird to go into details about the kind of sex Shane had in Mexico.

For some reason, the topic had just never come up again. And Shane was perfectly fine with that. It wasn’t as though he was clawing onto the memory, eagerly awaiting another moment like that. He was more than happy with Ilya’s sexual appetite, and instead of being something to remember, the experience was just… a faint memory.

When he drags his gaze back up, Ilya is looking at him like his statement alone might justify homicide. “Not important…?” He says the words slowly, like he is turning them over in his mouth to test whether they make any sense at all. The way his eyebrows draw together suggests they very much do not.

Shane winces slightly, though he tries not to let it show too much on his face. “Yes,” he says, a little more cautiously this time. “At the time.”

Ilya’s expression does not improve. “In what universe,” he says carefully, “is that not important detail.”

Shane only realises he’s rubbing the heel of his palm restlessly when he feels the sting of his nail press deep. “We weren’t together,” he ends up offering, like that is the most obvious explanation in the world.

Ilya stares at him. “That is not relevant.”

“It felt relevant,” Shane tries. 

“You told me you had sex with him.”

“Yes.”

“So you clearly were telling me things.”

“That was different.”

“How.”

Shane exhales softly through his nose, and he shakes his head once to try and get his mind under wraps. There was a simple reason, wasn’t there? “We were still… whatever we were back then,” he says, gesturing vaguely between them. “And you were already jealous enough about that story. It only happened once.”

“That is not the point.”

Shane tilts his head slightly. “Then what is?”

For a moment Ilya just looks at him, clearly weighing how to explain something that is frustrating him more than he would like to admit. His hand drags briefly through his curls again, the movement fidgety. “I already know about the man,” he says, finally.

“Yeah…” Shane nods, eyebrows furrowing, trying to understand.

“I know you had sex with him.”

Shane nods again.

“And now,” Ilya continues, his voice flattening slightly, “I learn there was… more.” There’s something off about his tone, the irritation shifting slightly. It isn’t quite anger, and not even really jealousy anymore. “You could’ve told me.”

Without thinking, Shane responds. “You could have asked.”

Ilya scoffs immediately. “Really, Shane? How was I supposed to know to ask? What even am I supposed to ask? Oh, moya lyubov, how many times you had two cocks in you at once?”

Instantly, Shane feels the blush burn into his cheeks. “What… I mean.. That’s not even what happened.”

Ilya’s mouth tightens slightly. “You have been sleeping with me for more than ten years,” he argues, gesturing loosely between them. “You don’t think maybe this is information I should know?”

Shane feels the fight rise up in him immediately, ready to respond to Ilya in turn. But, instead of rising to the challenge, he lets out a sigh so loud, his shoulders fall with the movement.

“I’m sorry.”

In a second, he feels arms wrapped around him, dragging him to Ilya’s chest. He instantly snakes his arms around the back of Ilya’s jacket, pressing his cheek into the top of Ilya’s shoulder, letting out a tiring sigh.

“To be entirely honest,” Shane’s lips are pressed against the side of Ilya’s neck, and he feels the faint buzz of the man’s heartbeat trill against him. “I almost forgot about it.”

For second, Ilya freezes. And then Shane can feel him laugh.

“What? How?”

“It wasn’t even two guys,” Shane admits, remembering the evening. “It was just him, Mexico top. He just had… a dildo.” 

Ilya is quiet for a moment, and he squeezes Shane tight. The silence stretches long enough that Shane lifts his head slightly from where it’s tucked against Ilya’s shoulder, just enough to try and read the expression on his face.

Ilya is staring at the wall.

Not in the brooding, angry way he had been a few minutes ago. Just staring, like he’s trying to assemble the entire image in his head.

“... a dildo,” he repeats, eventually. Oddly subdued.

Shane nods, lips pursed. “Yes.”

Then Ilya exhales slowly through his nose. “That is still double penetration.”

Shane huffs out a quiet laugh against his collarbone. “Technically.”

Ilya pulls back just enough to look down at him properly, his hands still resting firmly around Shane’s back like he has no intention of letting him escape. “You are unbelievable,” he mutters.

“Why?”

“You tell entire league this story like it is dramatic revelation,” Ilya says, gesturing vaguely toward the door that leads back to the party, “and then it turns out it was just you and very enthusiastic man with toy.”

Shane shrugs slightly, though the movement is awkward while still trapped inside Ilya’s arms. “Well,” he says, “I didn’t exactly have time to clarify the details while half the NHL was screaming.” Grumbling, he adds, “and it’s not like I could say that I was the one being doubly penetrated.”

Ilya’s mouth twitches faintly. Which, for him, is dangerously close to smiling.

“Still,” Ilya says after a moment, his voice settling back into something quieter. “You could have told me.”

Shane tilts his head slightly, studying him. “Would it really have changed anything?”

Ilya seems to consider his question, and he pauses. His gaze drifts away from Shane for a moment, brow creasing like he’s actually giving it a substantial amount of thought. 

“... maybe,” he finally admits.

Shane raises an eyebrow, interested. “Why?”

Ilya’s gaze drifts back toward Shane slowly. “Because,” he says eventually, voice quieter now, “I would have known.”

Shane blinks. “Known what?”

Ilya shrugs slightly, the movement shifting the leather of his jacket under Shane’s hands. “That you had done it.”

“And?” Shane prompts.

Ilya exhales softly. “And maybe I would have asked if you want to do it with me,” he says, voice small.

Shane still for a moment, and he tilts his head, wanting to make sure he understands everything Ilya is saying here. “You would have asked me?”

Ilya shrugs again, though the movement is smaller this time, almost self-conscious. It’s an oddly vulnerable gesture for someone who normally moves through the world like he owns every room he walks into. “Yes,” he says simply.

Shane studies his face. “You’re serious.”

Ilya’s gaze flickers away for a second before returning again. “Why would I joke about that?”

Shane lets out a soft breath.

Because the thing about Ilya is that he very rarely says things like that out loud. Most of the time his affection is something physical, such as the press of a hand against Shane’s back. Or the pull at Shane’s waist, dragging him as close as possible with a stern look in his eye.

Shane feels the air shift between them, a subtle charge that wasn’t there a moment ago. His breath catches, just for a second, as Ilya’s words hang in the space between them. The idea of it – of Ilya wanting that, of even considering it – sends a delectably warm curl of heat through Shane’s chest, down to his gut.

“You’re really serious,” Shane says, his voice quieter now, almost testing the waters. His hands are still pressed against Ilya’s back, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of the bomber jacket. He feels dizzy and slightly breathless.

Ilya doesn’t look away this time. His eyes are steady, that green-hazel mix burning with something raw and unguarded. “Yes,” he says, firm but low, like he’s daring Shane to challenge him. “I am.”

Shane swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He can feel the heat of Ilya’s body through the thin layers of fabric between them, the solid weight of him so close it’s almost overwhelming. He shifts slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than to Ilya, then adds, “I mean, I didn’t think you’d… I didn’t think you were into that.”

Ilya’s mouth quirks, just a fraction, but there’s no humour in it. It’s more like he’s holding back something bigger. “You don’t know everything I’m into,” he says, voice dropping even lower, rough around the edges. It’s so deep and gruff, Shane’s skin starts to prickle in… fear? Excitement? Anticipation? 

He blinks suddenly, caught off guard by Ilya’s bluntness, by the way Ilya’s gaze seems to pin him in place. “Oh,” he manages, and damn it, that’s the second time tonight he’s resorted to that stupid, useless word. He clears his throat, tries again. “What else don’t I know?”

Ilya doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his hands tighten on Shane’s waist, fingers digging in just enough to make Shane acutely aware of the touch. Then, slowly, deliberately, Ilya leans in closer, until their foreheads are almost touching and Shane can feel the warm puff of Ilya’s breath against his lips. 

“Ask me,” Ilya murmurs, the words quiet. “Ask me what I think about when I’m alone.”

Shane’s heart stutters in his chest. On instinct, his hands flex against Ilya’s back.  “What do you think about?” He asks, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends.

Ilya’s eyes darken, just a fraction, but it’s enough to make Shane’s pulse jump. “I think about you,” he says plainly, no hesitation. “On your knees. Bent over. Spread for me.” He’s incredibly close to Shane now, breath puffing against the side of Shane’s neck. “I think about taking you apart, Hollander. Piece by piece. Until you’re shaking, until you can’t think about anything but me.”

Shane’s breath hitches audibly, and he hates how obvious it is, how Ilya’s words seem to sink straight through him, igniting every nerve ending. He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

Ilya pulls back and lets his hands slide up his back until one of them curls around the nape of Shane’s neck, thumb brushing against the sensitive skin just under his ear. Possessive.

“You like that idea?” Ilya asks, voice a low rumble now, almost a purr. His thumb presses just a little harder, a subtle claim. “You like knowing I think about you like that?”

Shane nods before he can stop himself, a quick, jerky movement. “Yeah,” he breathes, barely audible, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

Ilya’s grip tightens for just a moment, and then he tilts his head, closing the last sliver of distance between them. 

Their lips brush, not quite a kiss, more a tease, a promise of something heavier. Shane feels the heat of it down to his bones, the barely-there contact making him ache for more. He tilts his head up, chasing it, but Ilya pulls back just enough to keep the tension simmering, to keep Shane wanting.

“Patience,” Ilya mutters against his mouth, the word laced with a smug edge that makes Shane want to push back, to take control just to see what Ilya would do. But then Ilya’s hand slides down to the small of Shane’s back, pressing him closer, and Shane folds like an arm-chair, his knees almost bucking beneath him under the heat of Ilya’s touch.

“I’m not patient,” Shane says, half a complaint, half a challenge, and he feels Ilya’s smirk more than he sees it.

“I know,” Ilya replies, and this time there’s a clear thread of amusement in his tone. “But you’ll wait for me. Won’t you?”

Shane groans quietly, because he knows himself. He knows all his body wants is for him to obey Ilya’s every command. So he nods once, a low whine piling in the back of his throat. “Yes, Ilya.” 

It’s this that causes Ilya to swear in Russian, and finally – finally – Ilya presses his lips to Shane’s properly. It’s not gentle, not tentative. It’s hungry and demanding, the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been building for hours, maybe since they both saw each other in the hotel earlier today. 

Shane melts into it like there is nothing else in life he was made to do, hands fisting in Ilya’s jacket, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between them. Ilya’s tongue brushes against his, hot and slick, and Shane can’t help the quiet sound that escapes him, swallowed by the kiss.

When Ilya pulls back, they’re both breathing harder, and Shane feels a little lightheaded, like the room has tilted just slightly off its axis. Ilya’s hand is still on the back of his neck, holding him in place, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “You want me to show you?” Ilya asks, voice rough now, almost a growl. “What I think about?”

Shane nods and it’s too fast, too eager, but he doesn’t care. “Yeah. Show me.”

Ilya smirk returns, and his hand slides down Shane’s back again, lower this time, fingers curling possessively over the curve of his hip. But then he stops, and the dangerous look in his eye subsides slightly.

Shane feels like whining again. “What… what’s wrong?”

Ilya blinks, and there’s a slight cross to his eyebrows now. He presses a kiss, hot and open-mouthed under the curve of Shane’s jaw, and Shane’s eyes flutter shut. 

“Moya lyubov, we cannot do this here.” 

The words are devastating, and Shane wants to slam his head back into the wall in irritation. A ragged groan escapes his lips, still feeling Ilya’s breath burning against his skin. He’s half a second from dragging Ilya back into him. 

“You’re a bastard,” he mutters, voice raw, fingers still knotted in Ilya’s jacket.

Ilya moves back just enough to lock eyes with him, gaze smouldering with a want that seems to mirror Shane’s own. But there’s that damn control again, the leash Ilya is able to keep on himself, even now. 

“Not here,” he says, low and firm, thumb grazing Shane’s hip with a maddening slowness. “Not with every idiot in the league out there.”

Shane lets out a loud sigh, frustration clawing at him. He knows Ilya’s right but his cock doesn’t care about logic. “Then stop looking at me like that,” he snaps, loosening his grip but not stepping back. “You don’t get to do all that and then just walk away.”

Ilya’s mouth curves, a dangerous half-smirk. “You started it first. Mexico.” The word seems to drip with some sort of sharper note, the jealousy from before lingering between them. 

Shane scoffs, but his pulse starts to race at the edge in Ilya’s tone. “Keep saying that, and I’ll tell the whole damn story again. Louder this time.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow, but there’s a spark of amusement there too. “Try it. See what happens.” His hand tightens on Shane’s hip for a split second before he steps away. The sudden distance feels like a slap. “Come. Back to party. Now.”

Shane drags both hands through his hair, willing his heart to stop hammering as he straightens his shirt. They take a second to compose themselves. Ilya smoothes his jacket, and Shane scrubs a hand over his face like he can just suddenly erase the flush that is there. After spending a minute calming themselves, Ilya leaves first, heading back out toward the main room.

Shane waits a good amount of time before he pulls himself back into the roar of drunken hockey players, a wall of noise hitting him like a brick as he steps back in, the chaos a stark contrast to the seductive quiet of the bedroom. The music thumps through the floor, a nonstop pulse that matches the erratic beat of his heart. He’s still half-hard, still buzzing from Ilya’s words and touch, and he knows he’s got to lock that shit down fast or someone’s going to notice. 

He scans the room for anyone who might’ve noticed their absence, but the crowd’s way too far gone, already extremely sloppy, loud and spilling drinks all over each other.

He spots Ilya first, because of course he does. The man’s back by the kitchen, leaning against the island with a beer in hand, looking for all the world like he’s just been chilling there the whole time. But Shane catches the slight tension in his posture, the way his eyes flick to Shane for a split second before darting away. It’s subtle, but it’s enough to make Shane’s skin prickle all over again.

“Hollander, you sneaky bastard!” The voice cuts through the noise, and Shane turns to see Carter Vaughn weaving toward him, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Vaughn’s got a whiskey glass in one hand, half-empty, and his hoodie’s long gone, blue t-shirt now on display. While Shane can definitely tell he’s probably a few drinks past a sensible level of drunk, his eyes are still sharp enough to make Shane’s nerves twinge. “Where’d you disappear to? Thought you’d bailed after dropping that fuckin’ bomb.”

Shane forces a smirk, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the way they’re still trembling. “Needed air, Vaughn. You lot were losing your minds.”

Carter Vaughn barks a laugh, sloshing his drink as he claps Shane on the shoulder, hard. “Nah, man, you don’t get to admit to that and just dip. We’re not done with you. Marlow’s got questions, and I’m backing him up.” He jerks his head toward the edge of the room where Cliff Marlow’s speaking with a couple of rookies, his broad frame easy to spot even in the packed suite. 

Shane’s stomach twists, but he keeps his grin locked in place. “What, you two playing detective now?”

Vaughn snorts, taking a swig of his whiskey. “Maybe. You’ve got the whole damn league buzzing. Didn’t think you had it in you, Hollander. Wholesome little Hollander, out here living like a damn rockstar.” His tone’s teasing, but even Shane can hear the slight challenge underneath it, almost like he’s fishing for more. 

Shane feels the heat creeping up his neck, but before he can say anything back, Marlow’s voice rumbles over. “Yo, Hollander. C’mere a sec.” 

Marlow’s pushing through the crowd now, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, his gaze steady but curious in a way that makes Shane’s pulse spike. The rookies scatter a bit as Marlow approaches, giving the veteran space, and Shane notices how the room seems to shift around him. A kind of quiet authority.

“What’s this about?” Shane asks, trying to play it cool as he steps closer, though his eyes dart to Ilya again, without his own consent. Ilya’s still by the kitchen, pretending to listen to some guy from Detroit, but Shane can tell he’s tuned into this, his shoulders just a fraction tighter.

Marlow tilts his head, studying Shane with that infuriatingly perceptive look Shane’s seen on him before. “Just wondering how many more surprises you’ve got up your sleeve. That story? Man, that’s not the Shane Hollander the league’s been selling us for years.” His tone’s light, almost friendly, but there’s a strange weight to it, like he’s testing the waters. “You always this wild, or was that a one-time deal?”

Shane laughs, short and sharp, trying to deflect. “What, you writing my biography now, Marlow? It’s not that deep. Just a dumb story.” He shrugs, but it feels forced, and he feels like Marlow seems to catch on.

Vaughn jumps in, grinning like a shark. “Bullshit it’s not deep! Man, I’ve been replaying that in my head, and I’m still shook. You’ve got layers, Hollander. Bet there’s more where that came from.” He waggles his eyebrows, obnoxious as hell, and Shane resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Keep dreaming, Vaughn,” Shane shoots back, but his voice is, unfortunately, tighter than he wishes it was. He can feel Ilya’s gaze again, a burning weight across the room, and it’s taking everything in him not to look. He knows if he does, it’ll be too obvious. Ilya’s jealousy is already simmering, and Shane’s little performance tonight keeps stoking the fire. It’s thrilling, in a fucked-up way, how much Ilya’s rattled by it, how every word out of Shane’s mouth seems to keep him on his toes. 

Marlow takes a slow sip of his beer, eyes never leaving Shane’s face. “I’m just saying man, you’ve got everyone’s attention now. Didn’t expect you to be the one shaking shit up tonight. Thought that was Rozanov’s job.” He nods toward Ilya, casual, but the mention makes Shane’s breath catch for a split second.

“Yeah, well, guess I’m full of surprises,” Shane says, aiming for flippant. He hopes it lands.

He shifts his weight, itching to get out of this conversation before Vaughn or Marlow dig any deeper. 

Vaughn laughs again, louder this time, drawing a few heads their way. “Fuck yeah, you are! Hey, Rozanov!” he bellows suddenly, turning toward the bar, and Shane’s heart drops into his stomach. “Get over here, man! Hollander’s stealing your thunder with this freaky shit. You got any stories to top his?”

Shane freezes, a cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck as Ilya’s turns. Their eyes lock for a heartbeat, and Shane sees the flash of something dangerous in Ilya’s expression. Jealousy, irritation, maybe even a flicker of amusement. But then it smoothens out into that practiced, cocky mask. 

Ilya pushes off the island, strolling over with that effortless swagger, beer in hand, and Shane tries to keep himself entirely in check. 

“Stories?” Ilya drawls as he reaches them, voice thick with his accent. “What, Hollander’s little confession not enough for you?” His gaze cuts to Shane, sharp, a challenge somewhere in there. “I don’t kiss and tell, Vaughn. Not like some.”

Vaughn cackles, oblivious to whatever’s happening between Shane and Ilya. “Man, you’re no fun. Hollander’s out here spilling his guts, and you’re playing mysterious? Bo-ring.”

Ilya’s smirk is thin, and Shane’s skin shivers at the look. Dangerous. “Maybe I save my stories for people who matter.” His eyes flick to Shane again, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to make Shane’s pulse jump. “Or maybe I just don’t need to brag.”

Marlow raises an eyebrow, seeming to catch the edge in Ilya’s tone, though he doesn’t comment on it. “Fair enough. But Hollander’s set the bar high tonight. Didn’t think he had that in him.”

Shane feels the weight of all three pairs of eyes on him, and it’s suffocating. He laughs, short and forced. He’s been in the NHL as a captain for long enough to know how to deal with these idiots. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. I’m not a fucking open book.” He steps back, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen bar. “I’m getting a drink. You clowns can keep speculating without me.”

Vaughn boos dramatically, but Shane’s already moving, weaving through the crowd as his heart hammers like a drum. He doesn’t dare look at Ilya as he passes, though he feels the man’s attention trailing him like a shadow. 

The kitchen bar is packed, players shouting over each other for refills, and Shane grits his teeth as he shoulders through, grabbing a beer he doesn’t even want just to have something to do with his hands. 

He’s barely taken a sip when he senses Ilya nearby again, not close enough to touch, but close enough that Shane’s body reacts instinctively, every nerve on edge. He risks a glance and Ilya is a few feet away, talking to some rookie, but his body is angled just so, like he’s keeping Shane in his peripheral. And then, quick as a blade, Ilya’s head turns, and their eyes lock again. It’s brief, but the heat in that look, the raw possession laced with frustration, makes Shane’s grip tighten on the bottle.

Shane knows he’s playing with fire tonight, pushing buttons he shouldn’t. The league expects him to be the golden boy, the clean-cut rival to Ilya’s incredibly sexy chaos, and here he is, blowing that image to hell with every single reckless word. 

And Ilya.

Fuck.

Ilya is just eating it up and hating it all at once. Shane can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes keep finding Shane like he can’t help it. The jealousy’s still there, simmering under the surface, but there’s something else now too. Hunger, intrigue, maybe even some sort of grudging admiration? Shane’s caught Ilya off guard, thrown him for a loop with every reveal in a manner so uncharacteristic, Shane feels like he’s playing a caricature of himself. 

He takes a long pull from the beer, and lets out a sharp breath. He needs to get out of this kitchen, away from the noise of Sam Guthrie’s penthouse party, away from all of these prying eyes. He needs Ilya, alone, now, before he says something even dumber than admitting to double penetration in front of half the fucking All Stars.

He sets the bottle down hard on the counter, the clink drawing a quick glance from some random defenseman nearby, but Shane doesn’t give a shit. He’s already moving, cutting through the crowd and toward the hallway outside the penthouse. He knows Ilya’s watching, and he knows Ilya will follow. They’re all in the same damn hotel anyway, with Shane’s room just a few floors down from this suite. No need to go far.

The hallway is quieter, the bass of the music a dull throb through the walls. Shane heads straight for the elevators, jabbing the button with impatience. His pulse is racing, a mix of adrenaline and raw want twisting in his gut. The doors slide open, and he steps in, holding them with one hand as he glances back down the hall.

He was right.

Ilya’s there, striding toward him, face unreadable but he steps quickly and determined. He doesn’t say a word as he enters the elevator, the doors shutting with a soft thump. 

“Your room,” Ilya says, voice low and sharp, and it is definitely not a question. He punches the ‘close door’ button without looking at Shane, jaw tight.

“Yeah,” Shane mutters, voice rough. He shoves his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching toward Ilya, the short descent feeling like an eternity. 

The silence is thick, broken only by the hum of the elevator, and Shane can feel Ilya’s presence beside him, hot and heavy like a physical touch.

When the doors open on Shane’s floor, they move fast, down the empty corridor to his room. Shane fumbles with the keycard, cursing under his breath as the lock finally clicks. Ilya’s right behind him, stepping in before the door’s fully shut. The second it latches, Ilya’s hands are on him, gripping Shane’s shoulders, spinning him around and slamming him back against the door with a thud.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya growls, eyes burning as he towers over Shane. “You and your goddamn mouth. You trying to fucking kill me?”

Shane’s breath catches, hands grabbing at Ilya’s jacket, pulling him closer even as the door presses sharply into his back. “Thought you’d like the reminder,” he shoots back, voice shaky but sharp. 

Ilya’s gaze darkens, a dangerous edge flashing through it, and then his mouth crashes into Shane’s, hard and hungry. It’s all teeth and tongue, desperate and rough, no room for anything soft. Shane groans into it, fingers digging into Ilya’s shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath as Ilya pins him harder against the door. One of Ilya’s hands slides up to grip the back of Shane’s neck, holding him still, while the other yanks at his shirt, pulling it up to get at bare skin.

“Bed,” Shane gasps when they break for air, chest heaving, lips already raw. “Fucking now.”

Ilya doesn’t argue, dragging Shane away from the door, half shoving him toward the bed in the middle of the room. Their clothes come off in some sort of a frenzy, shirts and pants hitting the ground as they’re thrown aside. By the time Shane’s knees hit the mattress, they’re down to boxers, and Ilya’s pushing him back, climbing on top with a look that Shane cannot interpret as anything other than pure predatory need.

“You think you’re funny,” Ilya mutters, voice low and thick as he braces himself over Shane, hand sliding down to palm him through the thin fabric. Shane’s hips jerk up, a sharp gasp escaping at the contact. “Making me think about you like that in front of everyone.”

Shane manages a shaky smirk, even as his breath stutters. “Worked, didn’t it? Got you all riled up. You gonna do something about it?”

Ilya’s hand tightens just enough to make Shane squirm, a low whine slipping from him before he can stop it. 

“Keep talking,” Ilya warns, leaning down to bite at Shane’s collarbone, the sting sharp and quick. “See what I do to you.”

For some reason, Shane feels like he’s in a teasing mood tonight. He knows Ilya’s going insane over it, and he wants to push it a bit more. And so he doesn’t back down, even as Ilya shoves Shane’s boxers off with rough efficiency. “What, you gonna double team me yourself?” He taunts, voice breaking as Ilya’s fingers wrap around him, stroking him long. “Prove you can keep up with my stories?”

Ilya’s laugh is dark, almost feral, and he pulls back to lock eyes with Shane. “Maybe I will, moya lyubov. You want that? Want me to fill you up like you told everyone you can take?”

Shane doesn’t think he told everyone he was the one taking it, but the sentiment still remains. And his stomach flips incessantly at the words, heat now spiking through him. He’s too turned on now to continue to play coy. “Yes. Please. Please show me.”

Ilya doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the lube from the nightstand, because they’ve been here too many times to count, and Ilya knows that Shane just keeps it there, even when they’re living in hotels. And then, he slicks his fingers with quick, practiced movements. 

Shane watches, breath shallow, as Ilya settles between his legs, pushing his thighs apart with a firm hand. The first finger presses in slow, stretching him with a familiar burn that Shane leans into, head tipping back against the pillow.

“Fuck,” Shane breathes, eyes half-shut, feeling Ilya work him open, the pace maddening. “More Ilya, please.”

Ilya’s gaze is intense, tracking every twitch on Shane’s face as he adds a second finger, curling them to hit that spot that makes Shane’s hips buck. “Patience,” Ilya murmurs, but there’s a smirk in his tone, smug as Shane writhes under him. “You need to be ready.”

Shane whimpers, unable to stop himself. “I’m ready. Please. I am.”

Ilya’s smirk widens, and after a few more thrusts, he adds a third finger, slow and firm. The stretch is tighter, a slight edge of discomfort melting into heat as Ilya works him, scissoring just enough to make Shane feel full, making breath hitch. 

“You’ve taken more than this before,” Ilya says, voice rough, leaning down to nip at Shane’s throat. “Haven’t you? Tell me.”

Shane groans, rocking against Ilya’s hand. “Yeah. Fuck, you know I have. Every time.”

“I do,” Ilya agrees, fingers still moving, deep and steady. “Gonna remind you tonight.” He pulls his fingers out after a bit, leaving Shane empty and desperate, then shoves his own boxers down, grabbing the lube again to slick himself up. 

Shane watches, hungry, feeling like a rabid animal as Ilya positions himself, the blunt press of the head making Shane’s breath catch.

“Ready?” Ilya asks, voice dropping softer for a moment, checking in. Careful. Loving.

Shane nods, hands gripping Ilya’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “Yeah. Now. Fucking please.”

Ilya pushes in slow, filling Shane with a heat that’s almost too much, stretching him after the prep. Shane groans, low and raw, nails digging into Ilya’s skin as he adjusts, the fullness grounding him even as it sets him on fire. Ilya pauses once he’s fully in, breathing hard, giving Shane a second, but the look in his eyes is wild, barely controlled.

“Move,” Shane grits out, rolling his hips to urge him on, and that’s all it takes.

Ilya sets a hard pace, deep and relentless, each thrust stealing the air from Shane’s lungs, making him cling tighter, moan louder. The bed creaks under them, the room filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, ragged breaths, and Shane’s half-broken curses. Ilya’s hands grip Shane’s hips, then slide up to pin his wrists above his head, holding him down as he drives into him with precision.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya rasps, leaning down, forehead pressed to Shane’s, breaths mingling. “So fucking tight for me. Always.”

Shane can’t talk, just gasps and whines as Ilya hits that spot over and over, building him up fast. He knows his cock is absolutely leaking right now. 

But then Ilya slows, just for a moment, one hand letting go of Shane’s wrist to reach for the lube again. Shane’s eyes snap open, half-dazed, watching as Ilya slicks up a finger, a wicked glint in his gaze.

“What’re you—” Shane starts slurring, but cuts off with a sharp moan as Ilya presses the finger in alongside himself, the stretch sudden and intense, a burn that’s right on the edge of too much but so fucking good. It’s not extreme, just that extra pressure, filling him further as Ilya keeps thrusting, very slow now but entirely deliberate.

“Thought you liked this,” Ilya growls, voice thick with heat, watching Shane’s face as he works the finger in deeper, matching his rhythm. “Told the whole damn league you could take it. So take it for me.”

Shane’s head falls back, a choked sound ripping from his throat as the sensation sends sparks up his spine. “Fuck, Ilya – shit, yeah. It’s – fuck, it’s a lot.”

“Too much?” Ilya asks, but there’s a tease in his tone, his finger curling just right inside Shane, brushing that spot while he keeps moving, stretching him fuller with every thrust. “Thought you were bragging. Cannot handle it now?”

Shane glares through the haze, panting hard, hips rocking to meet every push even as his body trembles with the intensity. “I can fucking handle it. Don’t stop. Keep – keep going.”

Ilya’s smirk is pure sin, and he adds a little more pressure, twisting his finger as he picks up the pace again, fucking Shane with both now, relentless. “Good boy. Knew you could. Look at you, taking it all for me.”

Shane is a complete mess, moans spilling out unchecked, the stretch and fullness pushing him right to the edge. To be fair to Ilya, he is undoubtedly the biggest lover Shane has ever had, and so this stretch is more than Shane had initially imagined this night entailing. It takes a second, but Shane’s legs wrap around Ilya’s waist, pulling him deeper, and Ilya groans, low and rough, his control slipping for a second before he drives in harder. 

“Come for me,” Ilya orders, his free hand sliding between them to stroke Shane in time with everything else, rough and fast. “Now, moya lyubov. Show me how much you like this.”

It’s just all too much. The stretch, the friction, Ilya’s voice, and just like that Shane is gone, off like a fucking kite in the air, arching off the bed with a raw cry as he spills between them, shaking hard as the waves crash over him again and again. 

Ilya keeps moving, dragging it out, finger and thrusts unrelenting until Shane’s whimpering, oversensitive. Then Ilya pulls the finger out, focusing on his own rhythm, and follows Shane moments later, a harsh groan against Shane’s neck as he buries himself deep, shuddering through his release.

They collapse in a heap, sweat-slick and breathless, tangled together entirely. Ilya rolls off just enough not to crush Shane, but keeps an arm over him, like he’s still possessive even in this moment. Even after he’s fucked Shane with both his massive cock and fingers. 

Shane stares at the ceiling, chest heaving, a dazed satisfaction settling in his bones. “Jesus fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. He doesn’t have any further words.

Ilya huffs, a tired smirk tugging at his lips as he brushes damp hair off Shane’s forehead. “You started it with that story.” He says, like Shane had asked a question and Ilya was just answering him. “Had to follow through.” His voice softens then, eyes roving over Shane. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Shane nods, wincing slightly at the lingering ache. But it’s pain of the best kind, and he smiles. “Yeah. Real good. Didn’t think you’d actually – fuck, that was intense.”

“Thought I would remind you,” Ilya says, eyes glinting with a mix of pride and leftover heat. “Next time you tease about taking two, remember I can make it happen. Or close enough.”

Shane lets out a shaky laugh, rolling onto his side to face Ilya fully. “Yeah, message received. Asshole. Gonna hold you to that next time, though.”

Ilya’s smirk widens, but there’s something warm under it now. “Deal. Now shut up and rest before we decide to go again.”

*~*

The rest of the All-Star Weekend is pretty relaxing, at least compared to the chaos of the first night. The arena hums with the loud buzz of trash task and laughter, the kind of energy that only really kicks in when the league’s top dogs are piled together for a (relatively) pointless display. Shane is truly on one hell of a team today – himself, Ilya, Scott Hunter, Wyatt Hayes, Cliff Marlow and Carter Vaughn – all thrown together on the same roster of this East v West charade. It truly is a stacked lineup, but Shane has barely got his head in the game, still hung up on the previous night at Sam Guthrie’s penthouse, and the events that followed after. 

“Hollander, you daydreaming already?” Vaughn’s voice cuts in as he slams his locker shut. He’s got that same annoying grin from the party, helmet tucked under his arm. “Don’t tell me you’re off in la-la land. You know we need to crush ‘em.”

Shane snorts, blinking fast to get back into shape. He pulls his laces tight. He’s played this game a million times before. “Piss off, Vaughn. Just planning how to drag your dead weight to a win.”

Vaughn lets out a loud laugh, flipping him the bird as he strides toward the ice. Nearby, Scott Hunter’s taping his stick, smirking but keeping quiet, while Wyatt Hayes pipes up from where he’s suiting up in his goalie gear, “Better watch it, Vaughn. Hollander’s got a freaky side. Might pull some crazy stunt out there to steal the show.”

Shane feels a twinge of heat creep up his neck, but he hides it with a grin.

Ilya’s on the bench opposite, sliding on his gloves, and Shane catches the quick, dangerous flash in his eyes at the banter. He’s been silent since they got here, but the tension between them is obvious enough.  The previous night had truly cranked something up in Ilya, and he continues to hold this sly, possessive vibe that makes Shane feel slightly vulnerable. 

“Cut the bullshit,” Marlow pushes, standing and snatching his stick. “Let’s demolish the West and get this done. I’ve got a hot tub with my name on it back at the hotel.”

“Bet Hollander’s got hotter plans after our win today,” Vaughn throws out, waggling his eyebrows as he passes Shane, only just dodging the towel Shane snaps at him with a cackle.

Ilya gets up then, heading for the tunnel, but he slows just enough to mutter, “Behave tonight,” so quiet only Shane hears it. The accent wraps the words in something dark and suggestive, sending a jolt through Shane’s gut. It’s a copy of Shane’s comment from yesterday, just in a different setting. 

However, Shane doesn’t reply, and instead just watches Ilya walk out, jersey clinging to his shoulders in a way that’s way too distracting.

The game starts fast, a messy blur of speed and fun showboating since no one’s really invested. Shane’s on the ice for the opening shift with Ilya and Hunter, since he and Scott have been relegated to wingers, and the crowd goes nuts as they tear through the West’s defense. 

Shane’s got the puck, weaving past a lazy defensemen, when Ilya glides up beside him, way closer than any play requires.

“Don’t choke now,” Ilya says, voice barely cutting through the roar, his smirk slicing as he snatches the puck off Shane’s stick with a cocky little flick. It’s a pure ego move for the fans, total Ilya bullshit since they’re on the same team, but Shane feels the unspoken taunt.

“Jackass,” Shane grumbles under his breath, chasing after him, but he’s smiling now. 

Ilya flips the puck to Hunter, who slams it in, and the arena loses it. On the way back to the bench, Ilya knocks Shane’s shoulder, harder than he needs to, and leans in for a split second.

“Keep up, my pretty,” he mutters, skating off before Shane can bite back, leaving him annoyed and weirdly horny in the middle of a damn All-Star game.

The rest of the match is a chaotic romp, their team up 6-3 by the third period. Vaughn’s a total menace, chirping at every West player dumb enough to skate near him, while Hayes shuts down shots with such an eerie sense of calm, even Shane’s slightly bothered. 

Shane and Ilya keep locking into each other’s rhythm on the ice, passes too clean, almost too synced, and Shane knows the crowd’s eating up the rival-captains-turned-All-Star-teammates pipeline. 

Post-game, the locker room’s entirely way too sweaty and noisy for an All-Star win. Carter Vaughn has somehow smuggled in beer and is passing it around, while Marlow’s already on his phone, probably locking in that hot tub plan. Wyatt Hayes yanks off his gear, still hyped, and slaps Shane on the back.

“Hell yeah, Hollander! You and Roz were a damn machine out there. What’s the deal, some creepy twin-bond shit from all your years of rivalry?” His tone’s entirely playful and Shane rolls his eyes, shoving him off. 

“It would take decades for you fools to understand,” Shane shoots back, peeling off his jersey. He feels Ilya’s gaze from across the room, heavy and deliberate, as Ilya strips off his own pads, dragging it out slow like he knows Shane’s locked completely on the way his shirt rides up just a bit.

Shane hangs back for a moment, messing with his gear, letting the locker room thin out as most of the players head to the showers or chat with the media waiting to hear about their win. Ilya’s still there, sitting on the bench, unlacing his skates with that fake-casual air that Shane sees right through. The space is quieter now, just a few stragglers, and Shane steps closer, voice low.

“Hotel bar. One hour. Don’t be late,” he mutters, not quite meeting Ilya’s eyes, pretending to adjust his towel.

Ilya doesn’t look up, but his mouth quirks into a sly grin. “Forty minutes, moya lyubov. You wait for me,” he replies, voice hushed.

Shane feels a jolt, barely hiding the smirk as he heads for the showers. Forty minutes is going to crawl by, but he’s not pushing it here, not with all these eyes around.

Later, at the hotel bar, a mix of All-Star players have taken over a corner, sprawled across a number of tables, already half-buzzed on drinks and still entirely hyped from the game. It’s a weird mash-up of rivals and teammates for the weekend.

Shane’s at the edge of the group, a beer in hand, trying to keep it cool as Ilya slides into the seat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush every damn time one of them moves. It’s no accident, and Shane’s too aware of every touch.

“Took you long enough,” Shane mumbles, eyes on the table, taking a swig to cover how Ilya’s nearness is already messing with him.

“Worth the wait, no?” Ilya murmurs, voice low, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leans in just a bit under the pretense of grabbing a coaster. His knee presses against Shane’s under the table, a quick, firm nudge that sends a spark through him.

Shane snorts quietly, shaking his head. “Keep that up, and someone’s gonna notice, asshole.”

“Let them,” Ilya says, barely a whisper, accent thick as his gaze flicks to Shane, dark and loaded. “Makes it more fun.”

Shane shoots him a quick glare, but there’s no real bite. Before he can snap back, Vaughn’s voice cuts through the bar, loud and grating as always.

“Yo, Hollander, Rozanov, what’s with the whispering over there? You plotting to team up and screw us over this season or just gossiping like old ladies?” He’s grinning wide, leaning over the table with a beer in one hand. 

Shane rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair to put some distance between him and Ilya, though the heat of that knee press still seems to linger through him. “Piss off, Vaughn. We’re just figuring out how to carry your sorry ass next time we’re stuck on the same team.”

Vaughn cackles, slamming his beer down hard enough to slosh it. “Yeah, right. I saw that freaky-deaky chemistry on the ice. You two got some weird voodoo shit going on. Spill it. What’s the secret?”

Ilya doesn’t miss a beat, his smirk sharp as a blade as he casually sips his drink. “Secret? Only that Hollander can’t keep up unless I push him. Hard.” His tone is all casual chirp, but the look he shoots Shane is pure heat, a silent jab at last night’s intensity.

Shane nearly chokes on his beer, covering it with a cough as he glares at Ilya. “Fuck you, Roz. Keep talking and I’ll show you who can’t keep up.”

The table erupts in laughter, Wyatt Hayes joining in with a loud snort from where he’s sitting on a stool nearby. “Damn, you two bicker like an old married couple. Should we book you a honeymoon suite for the next All-Star weekend?”

“Only if you’re paying, Hayes,” Shane fires back, flipping him off, but his face is burning now, and he knows Ilya is just eating it all up.

Cliff Marlow, half-drunk already, leans over with a sloppy grin. “Nah, nah, let them fight it out. Bet they got some kinky-ass way of settling scores.”

“We got that double trouble, Marly,” Ilya says smoothly, voice dripping with fake innocence. “But you wouldn’t know about that. Takes skill.”

The group hoots, Marlow oblivious to Ilya’s real undertone as he raises his glass. “Hell yeah, to skill! And kicking the West’s ass today!”

Everyone cheers, clinking glasses, and Shane uses the chaos to shoot Ilya a warning look. “You’re a dick,” he mutters under his breath, barely moving his lips.

Ilya just grins, leaning closer under the guise of toasting with the rest of the group. “You like it, my pretty. Don’t pretend. Remember last night? I can double that trouble anytime.”

Shane’s jaw tightens, a flush creeping up his neck as he fights the urge to shove Ilya right there. Instead, he takes a long swig of his beer, trying to drown the heat pooling in his gut. 

“Yeah, later,” Shane huffs a quiet laugh, his pulse beating hard as the memory of that intense fullness floods black. He shakes his head, but his eyes are locked on Ilya, a fiery burn heating up his lungs. “Better not hold back this time, asshole.” 

A wide grin envelops Ilya’s face. 

“Never.”

Chapter End Notes

oh my hollynovvy <3

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