Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova, Grigori Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Bodyswap, Alternate Universe - Magic, set at the start of their second season, Masturbation, Blow Jobs, Identity Porn, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Identity Crisis, dubious consent that comes with bodyswapping, Anal Sex, First Time Bottoming, Body Worship, Identity Issues, Autistic Shane Hollander, Language Barrier, Self-Esteem Issues, eventual kind of selfcest?, Hockey, Understanding, Pretending, I know SOME stuff about hockey emphasis on some, just don't be expecting Hockey Night in Canada level knowledge, Self-Doubt, Gay Shane Hollander, Bisexual Ilya Rozanov, Jealousy, I promise you there's no AI in this I'm just fast and motivated because you guys seem to like this, Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Existential Crisis, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Shane Hollander, Author is Canadian

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Heated Rivalry Fics - One-shots, Bodyswaps, a Crime AU & a non-hockey AU

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-20 Completed: 2026-03-23 Words: 34,489 Chapters: 17/17

In His Skates

Summary

While jerking off and thinking of each other, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov switch bodies. With a week before they meet for their first game of their second professional season, they've got no choice but to live each others' lives until then. But will seeing each other in person reverse whatever switched them?

Ilya plans to enjoy the admiration, while Shane is about to learn what it's like to be respected, but not loved. They both also find they're enjoying their predicament more than they should - and they've switched more than just appearances. Tastes and language skills remain, as do echoes of other memories.

Shane's about to learn there's more to the dickish Russian than an attitude and talent, and Ilya's about to learn that being the golden boy isn't all it's cracked up to be.

--
MAIN STORY: 1-13 (complete)
MINI ARC (Birthday Suit): 14-17 (complete)
More stories in the continuity potentially to be added!

Notes

Chapter 1: The Old Switcheroo

Seven days. In seven days, Boston would play Montreal for the first time in their second season.

Ilya Rozanov should have wanted to face off against fellow rookie Shane Hollander because they were rivals. Instead, he was looking forward to seeing him for reasons completely unrelated to hockey.

He sat on the floor of his living room with his dick out, watching a sizzle reel of Shane’s first season. He was already halfway there just watching him glide on the ice or slap the puck into the goal. But when the reel shifted to a series of fashion shoots and promo campaigns, he crested the tide. Then to a press conference where he spoke effortless French to a Quebec sports reporter.

“Stupid fucking Hollander and your stupid perfect face.” Ilya muttered to himself in Russian.

When he hit the edge of the climax, a strange, dizzy sensation swept over him. His vision began to blur and his vision tunnelled.

Panic gripped Ilya’s stomach. He’d felt something like that before. A concussion after a particularly heavy crack in a tournament in Moscow a few years ago. But he hadn’t sustained any injuries during preseason, and hadn’t had a concussion since he was drafted.

The tunneling of his vision was followed by a feeling of being disconnected from his body. It felt like being drunk or high - like everything was distant and he was a ball of consciousness without a body.

Then the world slammed back into focus out of nowhere. Ilya’s vision remained blurred and shattered, but then sharpness and physicality returned.

Immediately, Ilya knew something was very, very wrong. For one, he was no longer sitting on the floor of his living room. He was on the bed, on top of towels of all things. The only thing that felt right was the post-nut release.

“What the fuck?!”

That was not his voice. That was not Russian.

Those were not his hands.

That was not his dick, though it was a familiar one.

Ilya tried to get off the bed, but a very odd pressure up his ass made moving uncomfortable. He reached around and grabbed the flared base, then slowly withdrew it. He arched his whole back and let out a choked sound. When he pulled whatever it was around, he discovered it was a girthy yellow-gold dildo with the Boston Raiders logo on its base.

In spite of the absolutely bizarre, utterly terrifying situation Ilya found himself in, the sight of the dildo made him chuckle. “Well now.”

Ilya slapped the dildo down on another conveniently-placed towel on the nightstand next to a jar of lube. He eased himself out of bed and half-waddled over to the bathroom to confirm what he already suspected.

When he flicked on the light, the naked, sweaty, and freshly-satisfied face of golden boy Shane Hollander stared back at him.

He rinsed his hands in the sink to get rid of the lube and cum, then poked at his cheek. “No fucking way,” he muttered. Shane’s voice sounded different in his head. There was no trace of Russian accent that he could tell.

“Hi,” said Ilya to his reflection. “I’m Shane Hollander. Everyone loves me. I’m from Canada and I’m so perfect. I really wanted Boston but I got Montreal instead. I’m secretly fucking Ilya Rozanov..”

The way Ilya just naturally mimicked not just Shane’s accent, but his cadence, was very amusing. He knew he should be more freaked out but mostly it felt like some strange cosmic joke.

A guitar riff turned into a ringtone seeped in from the bedroom. Ilya crossed to the nightstand and picked up Shane’s phone.

Lily Calling.

Ilya smirked at the call display. “Oh yes, if I’m here, this means you’re there.”

He waited longer than he needed to and then he answered the call.

Before he could even say anything, he was met with a long stream of panicked Russian. It hurt Ilya’s brain because he felt like he should be able to understand it, but it was as if his native language had been put into a blender.

“Hey, hey, Hollander, calm down. Take a breath.”

Shane’s intense babbling calmed down but he couldn’t seem to figure out how to speak English.

Ilya switched the phone to his other ear, then looked around for something to put on. He found Shane’s underwear folded on a chair and pulled them on. Then he went back to the bathroom where he spotted a robe.

“You have to speak English because I’m you, and you can’t speak Russian. Speaking English takes concentration,” said Ilya as he leaned on the bathroom and looked at his own Shane-shaped reflection.

Shane said something in Russian again. Even though he didn’t understand, he guessed he was trying to communicate that he didn’t know how to do that.

Ilya thought for a moment, then snapped as he recalled what he was watching just before the shift occurred. “French. Try to speak French.”

There was a long pause, and then he heard his own voice with the thick Russian accent on the other end of the line.

“Rozanov, what is going on? Why am I you?”

The sound of his own voice provoked a very strange reaction from Ilya’s new body. He felt his asscheeks twitch and his throat go dry. “I have no idea.”

“How we fix? We need to fix.”

Ilya rubbed his face. Well, Shane’s face. He looked down at his hands and then slid a finger along his nose. As the shock began to wear off, he started to feel all the little things that felt different.

“How should I know? I don’t even know why this happened.”

That was the truth. Ilya had no idea this kind of thing was even possible. And he certainly wasn’t responsible for it.

“Maybe it will…” Shane struggled to find the right English words. It was a feeling Ilya was painfully familiar with. “..it will go back itself.”

“Wear off?”

“Yes, it will maybe this.”

Ilya glanced at his reflection again. He examined Shane’s body from different angles and slid his palm over his ass. “Yeah, maybe it will. We’ll meet in a week when we play each other, at least. We’ll try to figure something out then.”

The ease at which English flowed from his brain to his mouth was thrilling. Ilya only realized when he went home how exhausting it was to move through the world in his second language. Everything else felt strange and foreign, but the ease of speaking was a relief.

“A week…?” Shane trailed off. “And what do we do until then?”

Ilya shrugged. “Play our parts. What else can we do? Maybe it will wear off, maybe it won’t. But unless you have any bright ideas?”

Shane went quiet, though he could hear him breathing. “I don’t know if I can do this. Be you.”

“Sure you can. Just be an asshole and play hockey.”

“You better not fuck up my life, Rozanov. Remember, I can do same.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “You’re so boring. I promise. I will be the golden boy and you be the Russian dickhead. And when you’re in Montreal, we’ll figure it out.”

“OK.”

There was that feeling again - that little zing at the way Shane grunted that two-syllable word. Ilya was beginning to think he’d inherited a little more than just Hollander’s appearance.

“Good night, Rozanov,” said Ilya.

“Fuck you,” said Shane. Then he hung up.

Ilya set the phone down and then took a deep breath. He looked down at his body and rubbed his hand over his chest. He gave his pecs a little squeeze.

Terrifying? Yes. But Ilya found himself looking forward to what it would be like to be loved rather than just respected.

And secretly, he got a thrill thinking about Shane being forced to live his life. Shane tried so hard to be good and make everyone love him, while Ilya had done the opposite his entire career.

This was going to be fun.

—

Shane stared at the phone after he hung it up. He dropped it on the table next to a pack of cigarettes. He could smell them, and it woke a gnawing craving in his lungs and throat.

Unlike Ilya, Shane had immediately found clothes to cover up the body that wasn’t his. He was bundled up in a Boston Raiders hoodie and track pants. He thought the bulk of clothing would make him less aware of his new body, but it instead the way the clothing fell against his harder, leaner muscles drew his attention to it.

Then there was the post-nut satisfaction that still lingered. Like Ilya, he’d regained focus to find a dick in his hand and his own face on TV.

Shane kept his face turned away from the mirror over the bar in the corner of the room. But curiosity got the better of him.

Ilya’s clear blue eyes set in a serious face stared back at him. When Shane moved, Ilya moved. He lifted a hand, then dropped it, then turned to fully face the mirror.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted the front of the sweater to reveal tight abs. He hadn’t done up the drawstring of the sweatpants, so they sat low on his hips.

It was the body and face that invaded his fantasies every moment when hockey was not dominating his thoughts. Shane hated how much he’d gotten into his head since that first time they’d fucked.

He let the hem of the hoodie fall back down, then he walked over to the mirror and tried to mimic the confident swagger he’d seen Ilya do a hundred times. It wasn’t particularly convincing. He looked like he was thinking too much.

He lifted a hand and gently teased out his new curls, then skipped his finger down a cheek in need of a shave, then over his Adam’s apple and down to his collarbone.

Jesus. Why does this feel so good? It shouldn’t feel good.

Shane closed his eyes and let the feeling of Ilya’s body wrap around him. He wanted him so badly, but he never wanted to be him. Now that he was in his skin, however, it was intoxicating.

Then he opened his eyes and leaned on the dresser, head tilted down and then concentrated on speaking English. “Ilya Rozanov. Boston Raiders. I am best player in the league. Number one draft pick. Fuck Shane Hollander.”

It took concentration, and even then he struggled to find the right words.

Shane was put in French Immersion at an early age and maintained his fluency over time. It was still a bit of a strain to speak it, but not nearly as much as being Ilya and trying to speak English.

And even with French, at least in Montreal, if Shane found himself at a loss for words chances are he could switch to English

It must be exhausting to spend every day like this, and to have no fallback if you couldn’t make yourself understood.

Shane stared at his own reflection in a way he never got to do when he was in his own body. He studied the colour of Ilya’s eyes and the small details of his face. He was so beautiful. And smug. And arrogant.

And currently in control of his life.

He pushed off the dresser and paced on slightly longer legs. He passed by the dresser and spotted the cigarettes again.

To hell with it. They’re not my lungs.

Shane scooped up the pack, then pushed open the sliding patio door to step out into the cold night air.

The headrush that hit him when cigarette smoke hit his lungs almost made Shane think they were switching back. But no, it was just the nicotine flooding his system. It felt damned good. He understood immediately why Ilya did it.

The cold Boston night air made his skin tingle. A soft breeze bounced a curl off his cheek. Then, slowly, very slowly, he slid his hand down the inside of his thigh.

Shane recalled memories of sucking the dick now between his own legs. In his memory, the sensation shifted between giver and receiver, as if his memories and Ilya’s were intertwined.

He took another pull from the cigarette and exhaled slowly. Would Ilya be doing the same in his body?

In his body.

The fucking dildo.

Goddamn fucking damnit.

Ilya was never going to let Shane live that down.

He could only hope that Ilya experienced something equally embarrassing to even the scales before they figured this out and got their lives back.

But should he really wish for that? Or wish that somehow, Ilya played him to perfection?

Chapter 2: Game Day

Chapter Summary

Shane settles in to Ilya's body as best he can. It's game day against the Admirals, and Ilya will never let him live it down if he messes up.

Shane’s first morning in Ilya’s body was not that unlike a game day as himself. A little poking around Ilya’s impressive house located the fully-equipped home gym. Unlike his own gym, there was no rota of carefully-selected workouts written on a whiteboard attached to the wall. There was nothing at all, in fact, that indicated Ilya planned his workouts at all. But of course he must. Right? That was how it was done.

So in the absence of that, Shane followed one of his own routines for away games.

The ways in which Ilya’s body responded to the workout were both familiar and alien. There was a certain smugness as he realized Ilya couldn’t bench as much as he could. But Ilya’s body responded more smoothly to exercises that relied on core strength.

Shane frowned as he powered past his usual number of chin-ups and made a mental note to talk to his trainer about adding more core and arm workouts once he was back in his own body.

Cardio on the bike was about equal though, which Shane was salty about. The cigarettes really should have put him at a disadvantage, but it didn’t seem to affect things much.

The act of working out was so meditative, Shane forgot the bizarre predicament for a moment. That was until he entered the lower level bathroom to see Ilya’s face staring back at him, sweaty and red-cheeked.

Fascination blended with mild panic yet again. Shane didn’t let himself dwell on the how or the why, or the possibility that meeting in person wouldn’t switch them back.

It had to, right? He just needed to get through the week before their teams were due to play in Montreal.

Slowly, he pulled the sweaty tank top up over his head. Shane was proud of his body, not just for looks but the things it allowed him to do. But, he didn’t train for aesthetics and Ilya clearly did. Either that or the bastard was just insanely lucky.

The truth was probably somewhere in between.

Shane allowed himself the indulgence of tracing his fingers up the body that was currently his. He slid his thumb up the Adonis belt that pointed a v toward his crotch. He trickled the soft dusting of stomach hair that disappeared below the waistband. Then he leaned forward and deliberately flexed his arms and stared at himself with all the Russian intensity he could muster.

Shane’s mouth went dry and he immediately started to get hard. It was startlingly easy to summon Ilya’s raw animal magnetism.

“Get on your knees, Hollander,” Shane said to his reflection.

The Russian-coated words vibrated his chest in a pleasing way. He closed his eyes and fell heavily into a full-colour memory of getting his dick sucked.

But was it his with Ilya on his knees, or was he imagining it from Ilya’s perspective? It was impossible to say, but the effect on his body was the same.

A wave of guilt swept over Shane. He looked away from his reflection and dropped his sweatpants and underwear quickly, then stepped into the luxe steam shower. He wanted a cold shower, but it was preprogrammed to give a perfectly warm and soothing spray of steam and water.

Just do it. He’s going to.

The idea of Ilya getting off in his body should have freaked him out, but he actually found it kind of hot. It was certainly going to happen. Neither of them had given the other explicit permission, but it was there anyway by virtue of neither of them instructing the other to keep their hands to themselves.

With ragged breath, Shane extended his hand and began to stroke himself off. He started with the rhythm and pressure he would have used on himself, but then he switched to the technique he would use on Ilya during their stolen moments.

Ilya liked to be stroked off hard. He liked his balls tickled. He also liked Shane to make doe-eyes at him and liked it when he was vocal. That part he couldn’t do right now, so he focused on the movement of his hand.

When Shane was himself, he loved how long Ilya could go. But while battling strange sensations and inhabiting a body with different needs, it was incredibly frustrating.

“Son of a bitch,” Shane muttered in Russian.

After what felt like an agonizingly long time, Shane finally came. Between the workout and jerking off, his body was absolutely humming. He also felt the edges of a headache and his stomach growled.

Right. Food. He usually skipped breakfast or just had some fruit, but that was clearly not what Ilya’s body was used to.

Shane finished showering and toweled off, then had to go all the way upstairs with the towel around his waist because he’d forgotten to bring clean clothes down. Once he was dressed, he poked his head into the fridge.

There wasn’t much. Condiments. A few questionable apples. Protein shakes. And a stack of three plastic containers. Shane pulled them out and read the labels.

They were from a private chef. One was chicken and brown rice with sauteed cabbage. The other was beef stroganoff, and the third was a pork stir fry. It was too early to eat a pre-game meal of pasta, so instead he dug around until he found eggs and sat about making an omelette.

Even after he ate, Shane still had a headache. That’s when he noticed the fancy coffee machine with individual pods tucked into the corner. He stayed away from caffeine himself, but clearly Ilya did not. He had to Google instructions for how to even work the damned thing, but eventually he made himself a double shot of espresso.

As soon as the hot liquid hit his tongue, Shane felt a wave of relief. Yep, that was definitely it. He sipped it and savored it as he leaned on the counter. He’d avoided caffeine all his life, but if this is what it felt like, he understood the appeal.

The headache started to fade a few minutes later. Shane was left feeling energized, full and oddly…comfortable. Was it the nature of whatever shifted them that stopped him from having a full-blown panic attack about being trapped in his rival (and fuckbuddy)’s body?

Perhaps. But it was fascinating as well. They had so much in common. Money. Fame. Talent. But they were very different men. Shane found himself looking forward to walking a mile in Ilya Rozanov’s shoes.

—

Shane kept looking at Ilya’s phone, but no texts came through from ‘Jane.’ He had a feeling Ilya was testing him, to see how long he could play the part before he asked for help.

Natural competitiveness and stubbornness made him hold out, even though he could have used a pep talk and some advice for the upcoming game.

Before long, it was time for Shane to head to the rink. It was surreal for him to pull Ilya’s black, sleek Audi R8 into his labelled parking lot in a secure section of the parking garage.

He’d wanted to play for Boston so badly, and now here he was.

Montreal was great. He loved Montreal. But the Metros were not the number one team. Losing that top spot, and specifically losing it to Ilya still stung no matter how much he loved his team and its fans.

Shane spent the time in the dressing room keeping to himself and keeping quiet. Now that he had to play Ilya around other people, the fantasy started to wear off a bit.

“You’re not in your head, are you, Roz? Admirals just got lucky last time.”

“Fine,” Shane mumbled. Then he realized that didn’t sound very Ilya-like. “Mind your business.”

The other player, whose name Shane didn’t remember, helpfully ducked on his jersey a second later.

Marleau. Right.

That was apparently llya enough, because Marleau just grunted and grabbed his gloves. “Whatever, man.”

Warm-up was…strange. There was a good crowd in the stands, but more than a few people heckled him as he skated by, especially those with rinkside seats wearing Admirals jerseys.

Shane got some of that at away games, but at home? He was used to love from his team and at the very least, respect from the other team and their fans. There was vitriol in the voices of those who shouted at him as he skated by. Some of the Admirals stared daggers at him, to the point where Scott Hunter had to tell his teammates to focus up.

It got to Shane, as did the way his body moved on the ice. It felt…off. Ilya’s body was incredibly strong and fast, but different enough that it felt like jumping into someone else’s car and immediately trying to be a racecar driver.

He also didn’t realize how much he depended on knowing his teammates. A few of them, he knew from playing against them. But that hockey IQ was useful to play against them, not with them.

Shane did not play well. He made a lot of mistakes and passed up too many opportunities. They finished the first period with a score of 2-1 for New York. Only the skill of the Raiders goalie stopped it from being much worse.

If Shane bombed like that, there would have been pep talks and some gentle berating from his coaches (and razzing from his teammates) during intermission. But as Ilya, everyone gave him a wide berth. He was neither berated nor supported. Instead, he was left to sulk and stew.

He heard the phone chirp in Ilya’s cubby, but refused to look at it. Nothing Ilya had to say was going to make things better, and he couldn’t afford to do worse.

Shane stepped onto the ice for the second period in a terrible headspace. He was angry at himself for not being strong enough to kill it in Ilya’s place, especially while wearing a Boston jersey. Failing felt like justifying why he wasn’t a first-round draft pick.

What was worse, he knew Ilya was watching the game and wouldn’t let him live it down if he damaged his reputation. Hell, he might even blow the game against Toronto the next night in revenge.

So when he got a breakaway late in the second period. Shane’s adrenaline surged and he started to feel like he would turn it all around.

Then a cross-check from a beefy Admirals defenseman that slammed him against the boards and rattled his teeth.

Shane was not a player who got into fights much on the ice. It happened. It was part of the game. If he didn’t get up in his opponents’ face sometimes, he wouldn’t be a professional hockey player. But he was much more known for keeping an even head and breaking up fights than starting them.

Maybe it was the frustration of the bad game, the lingering fear about the switch, or something innate to Ilya’s body, but Shane snapped. He turned and grabbed Gusev, the defensemen by the collar and shoved him back while calling him a son of a pig fucker Russian. He meant to call him a son of a bitch, but his Russian-wired brain spat out something entirely more colourful.

The problem was, Gusev was also Russian so he knew exactly what the man he thought was Ilya called him.

Gusev dropped the gloves first and grabbed the front of Shane’s jersey. He slammed him up against the boards as the crowd booed and cheered and the refs trilled their whistles. He steeled himself for rough knuckles to the nose, but Admirals and Raiders players descended to pull them away from each other.

A few minutes later, Shane sat in the penalty box, still seething with anger.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

Chapter 3: The Golden Boy

Chapter Summary

Ilya's first day as Shane doesn't go much better than the other way around.

Chapter Notes

The weather outside is frightful. So have an extra-long chapter.

Ilya was feeling quite smug.

For him, the day before a home game was one of the most relaxing days of the season. Most often, that was a very quiet time where he’d run through a gentle series of workouts and catch up on his TV-watching. Occasionally there would be business meetings or the odd event, but that was unusual. It was a day to prepare mentally and physically for the game, especially when getting ready to go on the road.

The Metros’ next home game was the next night, so Ilya thought he had plenty of time to get used to Shane’s body. He wouldn’t be thrown onto the ice like Hollander was about to be.

It was a rude awakening then, when Shane’s alarm bleated obnoxiously at 6 AM. Ilya rolled over and pawed around for the snooze button. It took a second for him to remember where…and who he was.

Right. You’re Hollander.

Ilya sprawled out on his stomach and just smiled to himself. It felt nice to be in Shane’s skin. His bed was soft and cradled his body. The sheets smelled fresh and clearly high-quality. He let himself indulge in the feeling of Shane’s body. He wriggled his toes and shifted his hips against the mattress.

He’d just drifted off to sleep again when the alarm bleated again. Ilya let out a groan of frustration, then reached over and unplugged the alarm clock entirely.

Five minutes later, Shane’s phone started making noises. That finally made Ilya give up. He sat up in bed and poked at the phone until it stopped screaming at him.

That’s when he saw a series of alerts pop up.

Ilya opened the calendar app.

“No…”

The alarm now made sense. A physiotherapist would be there in less than an hour, likely to make sure a shoulder injury from the previous season was healing properly. Then there was a meeting with Shane’s publicist. Then lunch with his parents. After that, it was off to a wardrobe test for an upcoming ad campaign.

All of those activities (aside from lunch with parents) were things Ilya often had on his schedule as well. But never on the day before a game, and never so many in one day.

Once the day started, things didn’t let up until about 5 PM. At least he’d be home to see Shane try to be him on the ice.

Shane could have warned him about the full schedule. But then…Ilya couldn’t really blame him for forgetting given the circumstances. Or maybe working that hard was just normal for him, and Shane didn’t think it was worth mentioning.

Ilya opened up the text message chain with “Lily,” prepared to ask him for tips on how to handle the day. But when he realized there were no messages asking him for anything about game-day, stubbornness set in.

If Hollander didn’t need help, neither did he.

How hard could it be to be Shane, anyway?

—

It turned out, much harder than Ilya thought.

The physio session was easy enough. Ilya just avoided speaking much and just quietly followed instructions. That seemed Hollander-like enough. If the physiotherapist saw an issue with his behaviour, he was obviously paid enough to ignore it.

The shower Ilya had after was a huge temptation. He’d seen Shane naked on more than one occasion and had gotten up close and personal with his dick. But there was a difference between that and having it between his legs. It was all he could do to not jack off while staring at his pretty freckled face until he came.

But he resisted. It felt wrong.

It also felt right to deny himself, or at least…familiar.

So Ilya managed to survive being naked as Shane without giving in to temptation. The downside of that is he was left feeling quite horny.

Ilya’s own body was more sculpted, it was true. But he loved the slight layer of softness that sat above the rock-hard muscles beneath. The one indulgence he did allow himself was fondling his pecs, both flexed and at-rest.

As he did, he dredged up a vivid sense-memory of lips and teeth on his nipples, and a stick-calloused hand running up the tender part of his inner thigh. Then he saw flashes of his own face and memories of lips folding around his dick.

His hips bucked and Ilya fumbled with the shower controls until he turned it as cold as he could get it. He stood under the ice cold spray until the horniness subsided. Ilya wrenched the shower off and stumbled out.

Ilya was barely out of the shower and dressed when the publicist arrived.

After that, Ilya just kept up with being taciturn and listening more than he spoke. If he was asked questions he didn’t know how Shane would want him to respond, he said something noncommittal or deferred answering a question. He didn’t want to make Hollander agree to something he didn’t actually want to do.

For all Ilya’s bluster, he had no desire to actually harm Shane or his reputation and not just because Shane could easily get revenge until they switched back. Shane’s work ethic and steadfastness were part of what he liked about him. He admired him, even though he would never admit that.

Usually in those sorts of meetings, Ilya was bored and restless. He didn’t much care for the business side of hockey. He made more money than he could ever spend, even with sending so much home. He didn’t have a brand the way that Shane did. He could get away with being mercurial. There were certain brands who would never sponsor him because he was Russian and a dick. Anyone who booked him as a guest or who wanted to do a brand deal knew exactly what they were getting.

But Shane was the golden boy. That meant a lot more playing nice.

Rather than being bored like he would be as himself, Ilya found he was distracted by tiny things during the meeting. There was a thread sticking out of the publicist’s jacket that waved with the movement of the air. When the fridge kicked on in a noisy way, he struggled to focus on what the man was saying.

Ilya was no stranger to missing out on bits of conversation in the English-speaking world. But he was still having no problem parsing English. This was something else. It was like the audio mix was off on the publicist’s voice, or he was constantly mumbling.

Still, he managed to get the publicist to table any big decisions, or simply confirm dates and times for things Shane had already agreed to.

Then it was to the event in Shane’s calendar that Ilya was most dreading: lunch with his parents. He had no idea how close they were. He just knew that Shane’s mother Yuna was his manager and a huge fan of the Metros. Other than the time on the elevator early in their affair, he’d never even met her.

Rather than risk getting lost in Montreal, Ilya ordered a cab to the restaurant. He could tell the cabbie was absolutely bursting when he recognized who was in his car but he was too professional to say anything. A Metros air freshener dangled from his mirror.

Normally when he was recognized in public, Ilya would not acknowledge the recognition unless he was in the mood to have his ego stroked. But recognition from a fan didn’t feel like something Hollander would ignore.

So as he got out of the car, Ilya managed to click Shane’s brain into French enough to say thank you for the ride and his support.

The cab driver declared, “Go Metros!” in broken English and then drove off with the biggest smile on his face.

Some of Ilya’s fans would certainly be thrilled to meet him as himself, but the genuine love and pride from the cab driver felt different from those fan interactions. He entered the restaurant feeling quite light.

Then Ilya spotted Shane’s parents. He approached awkwardly and returned the hugs and kisses. Shane’s father looked incredibly dull.

What Hollander didn’t know was that when he called him or his family boring, it was a compliment.

Grigori Rozanov was certainly interesting.

That was not a good thing.

Ilya managed to mumble his way through the conversation just as he had with the publicist and the physiotherapist. It was so strange to sit in the obviously Canadian restaurant with English and French speakers all around and not feel like he was drowning in a sea of babbled nonsense with a clear word here or there. Some of the French was more challenging to make out, but Shane was more fluent in French than Ilya was in English.

The only thing he liked about being back in Russia was losing the strain of speaking and understanding. He really needed to work on his English more.

But Shane’s brain brought with it its own barriers. Ilya kept getting distracted by small things again. The tag on his sweater rubbed a bit when he shifted. A light up and to the left was a bit too bright and got in his eyes when he shifted a little too much.

Then his food arrived. Yuna took the liberty of ordering him a kale chicken caesar salad. It wasn’t something Ilya would have ever ordered, but he guessed Shane must like it. So he scooped up a bite.

Ilya immediately started to gag. The flavour was fine, but the texture was incredibly off-putting.

“Honey? What’s wrong?” asked Yuna with some alarm.

“It’s…” Ilya tried to swallow the bit of kale, but he felt like it was going to make him throw up. He eventually got it down and swallowed several mouthfuls of ginger ale. “...fine.”

Both Yuna and David Hollander looked at the salad, then at him, then understanding passed over their faces.

“Don’t worry about it,” said David as he squeezed Ilya’s wrist.

Yuna, meanwhile, flagged down a waiter. “Sorry. I forgot he’s eating more protein before game day. Can we get the chicken and wild rice with steamed vegetables, instead? No need to take the salad off the bill. That was my mistake. Thank you.”

Ilya’s Shane-shaped freckled cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“No need to apologize. I forgot sometimes they massage the kale too much here,” said Yuna as she pulled the salad away to the edge of the table for the server to collect.

If Ilya had been an outside observer of Shane’s reaction to the salad, he would have thought it was a huge overreaction and odd pickiness. But the memory of the flaccid, rubbery piece of kale on his tongue was enough to make his stomach heave again.

Ilya finished the lunch with Shane’s parents without them showing any direct suspicion that something was up. Perhaps being quieter than usual and in his head was just how Hollander got before a game, especially an early-season one.

Hopefully that would continue to get him through the rest of the day, at the very least.

—

Ilya managed to mumble and nod his way through the wardrobe fitting for the ad campaign, just as he had through the other interactions.

Shane…Ilya? Looked good. It was prep for a shoot with a Montreal-based high-end menswear designer. He took the time to examine himself in the perfectly-fitted, high-end clothes.

You should dress like this more often, Hollander.

Not that Ilya didn’t find the jockish sweatpants and hoodies hot. He absolutely did. It was so easy to get those pants down or grope his chest. But the high-waisted trousers, tight shirt and brown leather aviator jacket with a fur collar really worked for Shane’s body.

Ilya let a little of his own natural cockiness and desire to see Shane looking as hot as possible loose when the photographer snapped a few test pictures.

“Damn,” the photographer said as he checked the image. Then he showed it to Ilya.

Ilya managed to make Shane’s doe eyes smoulder. The casual picture projected confidence and quiet sensuality. It was very sexy. And it was something he doubted the real Hollander could have pulled off without a lot of coaching.

“Great,” Ilya murmured.

“Bring that energy to the shoot next week, and it will be a killer campaign.”

Not as good as that test photo, Ilya thought smugly. By any luck, this would all be over by then.

He said goodbye and thanks to the photographer. Then finally, blissfully, at almost 6 PM, Ilya re-entered Shane’s apartment.

Just in time to watch Hollander royally fuck up his game.

—

“I’m so sorry. This is harder than I thought it would be.”

Ilya shoved a slice of pizza into his mouth, not caring that it broke Shane’s meticulous diet. He was pissed off enough by the 4-2 loss to the Admirals that he couldn’t bring himself to pull out the perfectly-portioned meal Shane’s personal chef had loaded into the fridge while he was out.

“You made me look like an idiot, Hollander. You’re lucky Sanders,” the goalie, “...was on his game. It could have been so much worse than that,” Ilya paced Shane’s apartment while taking bites of the pizza.

“What are you eating?”

“None of your business.”

“It’s my body!”

“And that was my game!”

Ilya had tried to text Shane tips about how to play to the strength of his teammates, but from his third period performance, it was clear Shane hadn’t read it until after.

“Sorry,” mumbled Shane in Ilya’s voice.

Ilya sighed and perched on the arm of the couch. He looked at the slice of pizza, then tossed it into the box. If it made him sick, the only one he was really punishing was himself.

“He’s going to call you. Just agree with him and don’t try to defend yourself.”

“Who?”

“My father.”

Ilya felt a pang of guilt at what Shane was about to experience. His father berated him after every game if he didn’t win, or didn’t win by enough. But Hollander had made enough very obvious errors that the chewing out was about to be relentless.

He turned and shifted to lean his forehead against the wall. He murmured, as if the real Shane were right there. Then he made a loose fist and ran his knuckles up and down. “He will be cruel. He will say some things that are fair, but many things that aren’t. He will blame you for your own mistakes and every mistake your team made. He will not accept any excuse.”

For the most part, the nature of the swap made Ilya adapt Shane’s speaking cadence. But when he spoke of his father, he made Hollander’s voice take his own rhythm.

The dressing-down by Grigori Rozanov was always brutal and relentless. The contrast between that and Shane’s parents silently swapping out his food without judgment was stark.

The fact that Hollander was about to experience that in his stead?

He felt like shit.

“OK,” said Shane softly on the other end of the line. “I think he’s been calling. I didn’t answer.”

“Don’t put him off too long.”

“Are you all right?”

The concern was both touching and maddening.

Fucking Hollander.

“I’m fine. I’m the king of Montreal. Why wouldn’t I be?” Ilya was very good at summoning up bravado when he didn’t feel it. It was harder to do than it normally was, but he did manage it.

“Yeah well, playing hockey as me might not be as easy as you think. Playing against a team and playing with them is different.”

“Well, it’s easy when you’re good at hockey. Not that you’d know what that was like.”

“Asshole.”

The voices were all wrong, but the banter was still there. Ilya smiled and turned to lean against the wall. “We should talk about strategy. For your next game and my game tomorrow. Tell me about your team.”

Chapter 4: Aftermath

Chapter Summary

Shane deals with the aftermath of a dressing-down in Ilya's place. Ilya's time on the ice is better than Shane's.

Ilya was not exaggerating about his father’s dressing down. Shane let the old Russian rant and browbeat the person he thought was his son. It went on and on and if he didn’t act sufficiently ashamed and contrite, it would start up all over again.

Sometimes Grigori Rozanov lost track of what he was saying and rambled for a moment, and at one point it sounded like he was chewing him out for a completely different game. But then it returned to how he was lazy, how he didn’t show leadership, how the Americans had made him soft and weak.

Eventually, Shane hung up, mumbling something about needing sleep. He was more physically drained by the conversation than he had been by the game itself.

What Ilya had to endure after every loss must have put an incredible strain on him. No wonder he was so driven to win, and why loss brought anger and bitterness. It made the pressure Yuna Hollander put on her son seem like nothing.

Once Shane was back to himself, he would stop letting her overbearing ways and pressure to be a role model get to him as much. That’s not to say that his mother was blameless, but she never made him feel like utter shit if he lost or made a mistake on the ice.

Shane pawed at his eyes to push away tears that he’d barely held in over the thirty minute non-stop dressing down. His hand shook as he dropped Ilya’s phone onto a table. Then he collapsed forward and braced himself against the back of the couch.

Shane carried the weight of an entire city, an entire community, and sometimes, an entire country on his shoulders. But the pressure that Ilya’s father placed on him was targeted, relentless, and precise. It was the difference between carrying a heavy load and having all that pressure at the end of a single point, pressed deeply against his chest.

He needed a drink.

Ilya’s liquor cabinet was well-stocked, but Shane instinctively went for the vodka. It was not his drink of choice, but it was what his body craved.

His hand continued to shake as he filled a crystal tumbler. He managed to steady it enough to raise the glass to his lips and take a healthy swallow.

The vodka didn’t really help, but Shane kept drinking anyway.

After nearly finishing a triple of straight vodka, his natural self-control got a handle on the reactions of Ilya’s body and the visceral effect his father had on him.

Shane knew Ilya well enough to suspect were he in his own body, he’d keep drinking to dull that pain and to punish himself. Or perhaps he’d go out and fuck some girl or maybe even start a fight. Anything to release the pressure.

He realized too, that he’d been that pressure valve more than once, in the moments where that frustration and pressure overlapped with their time together. It now made sense why Ilya was warm and sexy and teasing one moment, and cold, prickly, and distant another.

Shane pushed the glass of vodka away with a bit still in it, then turned to look at himself in the mirror.

“It’s not your fault,” Shane said to himself in English.

Shane’s Ilya-shaped reflection didn’t seem to believe him. So he turned and approached the reflection. He fought against everything his body wanted him to say and feel and tried to project himself through onto a face that wasn’t his.

“It’s not. Your. Fault.”

For a moment, he saw both of them in one body. It was disorienting, like looking around a house of mirrors in the half-light. He had to look away.

The feeling lingered like a ghost on Shane’s shoulders. He stood for a moment in a dissociative fog before he took himself to bed.

—

“See? That’s how you fucking do it.”

Shane stood in front of the TV, watching a replay of Ilya in his body scoring a hat trick to win the game against Toronto. “You are chirping too much. You nearly started two fights. I don’t do this.”

“Don’t worry, Hollander. I like this pretty face. I want to keep it intact.”

“Are you alone?” bit back Shane.

“Relax. I’m…”

Shane heard a cheer in the background and the shouting of his teammates.

“You’re not! Don’t say Hollander. That’s weird.” Shane ran his fingers through Ilya’s hair and flared his nostrils. “We should only talk on the phone when we are alone.”

There was no answer from the other end of the line.

“Rozanov!”

“I thought we weren’t using names,” Ilya replied. He managed to make Shane’s voice sound incredibly smug.

Shane wanted to talk to him about the conversation with his father. Ilya hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t pushed it. He wanted him to focus on the game.

“Just…” Shane exhaled slowly. “Don’t drink tonight.”

“What? Why not?”

“I don’t drink during the season. If you go out and get drunk, people will notice.”

“You are so boring!”

“Rozanov…”

“Fine, fine. Not too much.”

“None.”

“Maybe.”

“Fuck you.”

“Good night, Rozanov,” said Ilya, emphasizing the name.

“God damnit, that’s not better!”

Ilya just laughed, then hung up.

—

The Metros teammates cajoled Ilya to come out and celebrate with them. Despite what he wanted Shane to think, Ilya turned their invitation down.

Ilya liked the idea that Shane thought he would be out, potentially staining his perfect reputation. But residual guilt lingered from the phone call with his father.

Ilya thought at least he’d have game day to prepare, but the physiotherapist was back again, followed by a nutritionist. Then he found Shane’s meticulous list of game-day prep. So he followed it, as best he could even though it felt ridiculous at times - like showing up at the rink a full hour before he would for his own game day and eating precise food at precise times of the day.

Ilya wanted very badly to show up Hollander at the game. If he had to follow a ridiculous routine to make that happen, he was going to do it.

Being Shane during the game was very difficult as well. There were moments when he wanted to be more aggressive or more reckless, but he kept himself reined in.

He was worried after the salad incident that being on the ice would be overstimulating. But an odd calm fell over Ilya as his skates hit the ice. The roar of the crowd became white noise and all the stimulus was comforting rather than upsetting. He also found it a lot easier to focus on the technical aspects of the game, without his hot-headedness getting in the way.

It still did at times. He was still Ilya Rozanov, even if he had temporary residence in Shane Hollander’s brain.

Shane was right. He shit-talked too much and ended up in the penalty box twice. There was one more game against New Jersey on their home ice before the Raiders came to Montreal. He wanted to do even better next time.

For Shane, or for his own ego? He couldn’t quite decide.

Fortunately for him, begging off on a celebration was something the Metros were very used to. Hayden tried to cajole him, but eventually relented and Ilya was allowed to leave.

By the time he entered Shane’s apartment, Ilya was utterly exhausted. He kicked off his shoes and flicked on the light. His stomach growled aggressively.

Ilya opened the fridge to see the box of pizza staring at him. He reached for it, but then pulled out one of the catering containers. The salmon with brown rice and a side salad felt better on his system than greasy pizza. Maybe it wasn’t discipline. Maybe he just liked eating healthy.

That couldn’t be it. Who liked eating healthy?

If anyone would, it was Shane fucking Hollander.

Shane’s phone chirped.

Lily: You better not be drunk.

Jane: None of your business.

Lily: wtf

Ilya sighed and typed out a response.

Jane: Relax. I’m home.

Lily: Good. Can we video call?

Video call? Ilya grinned. Well. That could be interesting.

Jane: Hold on.

Ilya dropped his dishes in the sink, then went into the bathroom to wash his hands and check out his face. He searched around for Shane’s hair products and did a little work to make it lay just so. Then after a little rifling around Shane’s closet, he found a black t-shirt that was a bit too tight. He pulled it on and grinned at the way it clung too tightly to his chest, especially around the pecs - and rolled up a little when he lifted his arms.

Fuck, Hollander.

Ilya touched a bit of dry skin on his lips, then dug around for balm. He smothered on more than he needed to, which made his lips glisten. It probably wouldn’t pick up on the webcam, but, if it did…

It took a bit of searching before Ilya found Shane’s laptop. They’d exchanged information under ‘Lily’ and ‘Jane’ but neither of them ever suggested calling each other.

Shane’s desktop wallpaper was him with his parents out front of what he assumed must be his childhood cabin. Shane looked to be about the age he was when they met.

When he loaded up the messenger, there was a green dot next to Lily.

Ilya hesitated with his finger over the call button. What would it be like to see his own face on the other side of the screen? It was strange enough to hear his voice over the phone.

But curiosity overrode his uncertainty. He hit the green video camera icon.

Chapter 5: Unstable Connection

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane initiate a video call to talk face-to-face about their mutual...predicament.

Chapter Notes

The web camera took a second to buffer before it clicked in.There was a burst of crackling audio before the picture settled to reveal Shane, in Ilya’s body as he kneeled on the bed.

Ilya had forgotten he’d set up the webcam in his bedroom so he could chat with Svetlana while they watched hockey.

Shane was wearing a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt that clung to slightly damp skin. His hair was damp as well. The wide, slightly downward facing angle on the best webcam money could buy gave him an excellent view of his own body.

Ilya regretted simply propping Shane’s laptop up on the kitchen table. Or, perhaps that was a good thing considering the way just the sight of him made him squirm in his seat.

“Hi,” said Shane. “Are you okay?”

Hearing his voice over the phone had been strange enough. Seeing it through the camera was another thing entirely.

Shane shifted back and leaned on his elbows. He probably didn’t mean to put his body on display, but he looked rather…slutty.

“Well enough. Did you see how I won the game for you?”

Shane’s Ilya-shaped nose wrinkled. He looked one part petulant, one part angry. He snorted. “With two penalties.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a few penalties. That’s just how the game goes.”

Shane stared at him and pursed his lips. “Not my game.”

It might have been Ilya’s imagination, but it felt like Shane was staring at his collarbone and his lips.

“That’s a lie. I’ve seen you in the box.”

“Yeah but, twice in one game?”

The video feed froze a moment on Shane looking utterly indignant, but it sorted itself out a moment later.

Ilya grinned.

Even though Shane’s face was wrong, the perfectionist pouting was all Hollander and it amused Ilya as much as it did on the real thing.

Both went quiet for a moment as they looked at their reversed images in the camera.

“This is so fucking weird,” said Shane after a moment. He shifted forward onto his stomach and approached the lens of the camera. “I didn’t really appreciate how much of a pain in the ass it is to speak English for you. I mean, I speak French and live in Montreal, so I know what it is to speak a second language. But Russian and English…”

“...are further apart than French and English.”

Shane nodded. “Plus, if I couldn’t find the words, most people speak some English, at least downtown. But in your brain, I think…” he tapped his head, “...in Russian. It is a fight to make the words come out. It is fun to curse when no one can understand me. Except Gusev. The Admirals defenseman? I called him something pretty rude when he checked me.”

“Gusev?” said Ilya. He let out a low whistle. “He’s a good guy. We played together when we were younger. What did you call him?”

“I uh…” Shane shifted and looked down and away. “Son of a…pig fucker?”

Ilya watched the shame dance across Shane’s mismatched face. Then he laughed. “No!”

“I’m sorry! I can apologize…”

“No, no, no…” said Ilya. Tears threatened to follow the laughter. “I think he is a good guy but he still doesn’t like me.”

“Oh.” Shane took a deep breath. “Good. I mean…” His cheeks started to flush.

“Hollander, relax. Stop blushing. Russians don’t blush.”

Seeing Shane be his usual goody-good self who was worried about penalties and insults reassured Ilya somewhat. Whatever this swap had done to them was more than just their minds. He’d worried about the integrity of Shane’s consciousness if he was also feeling foreign impulses and sensations like he was.

It was also kind of hot to see his own body avoiding eye contact and tripping over his words.

Ilya was vain, and he embraced that vanity. He wanted to not only be a strong hockey player, but look good naked. That meant training hard in ways that didn’t help his game, but sculpted his body into a more pleasing shape. Many hockey players were thick and broad, with little definition despite their strength. He also knew he was handsome, and knew how to swagger, charm, smile and seduce. So finding Shane handsome in his body was not a huge stretch.

He suspected Shane also trained for aesthetics. Ilya’s hand rested on his stomach and he traced the lines of his abs through the t-shirt and away from the camera’s view.

“Did you enjoy your shower?” asked Ilya as he dropped Shane’s voice down into a low register. His eyes dropped to half-mast.

“What? Oh…” Shane fingered his hair and bit his lip. “Well, I had to…”

“Of course you did.” Ilya slid his finger across the track pad and popped up a small window to show his video feed back at him. Hollander’s pretty face stared back at him with hunger in his eyes.

Ilya squirmed again, then slowly parted his thighs out of the camera’s view. He started to get hard.

He knew he should ask about the conversation with his father, or talk about what they would do if meeting in person didn’t reverse whatever this was. Or make a plan for the next few days and the one additional game they both had to play before they met.

But all that would spoil the mood.

“Have you touched yourself?” Ilya expected the answer would be no. He expected that Shane avoided touching himself for fear of impropriety or just dogged self-control.

So when Shane nodded while looking away, Ilya laughed again. “No!”

“I knew you were going to!”

Ilya shifted closer to the camera and put on his best imitation of a golden boy smile. “Your virtue remains intact. I haven’t touched your dick. I have stared at my pretty new face, though. I spent some time…” he walked his fingers across his cheek, “...counting my freckles. And I’ve showered, of course. That can’t be avoided after a game.”

Shane shifted and moved to sit on the end of the bed. He leaned in closer to the camera. He squinted. “You’re lying.”

“No.”

Shane swallowed. The blush returned. “I’m sorry. I…”

The video feed glitched and stuttered just as Shane did.

Ilya laughed. “Hollander, Hollander. It’s okay. You can touch your dick. If you give me the same permission.” As he spoke, he slid his hand up under his shirt and then down to the top of his track pants. He stopped there and tried to school his new features into the most seductive look he could manage.

The camera caught the very obvious arousal between Shane’s legs a moment later.

Ilya knew intimately what that felt like, and his new body responded at the sight of it. His mouth went dry and he shifted.

That triggered a very vivid memory of strong arms around him, a hot tongue on the back of his neck, and something hard and long sliding between his asscheeks. All he could think of is how he wanted much more than that.

For Ilya, who was definitely not a bottom, that was a novel desire. He wondered if Shane was experiencing a similar memory.

From the way his eyes hooded and his lips parted and the tent in his shorts grew, it seemed so.

“I uh…” Shane stammered. English was a struggle for him through the fog of arousal. “...is fair.”

“Is.” Ilya replied. “Take off your clothes.”

“Isn’t that my line?”

Ilya laughed. “Oh, so it’s time for roleplay?”

Shane smiled and squirmed. It kind of annoyed Ilya how he made him look cute and gentle. He hoped to god that the instincts of his body kicked in when he was out in public. For the first time Ilya realized that Shane could damage his reputation by being too nice, too kind, too gentle.

Annoying.

“I mean, I…—” Shane began.

Then the video feed, which had been unstable the whole time, fractured and garbled. Bits of audio cut through, but then the call dropped entirely.

“Son of a bitch!”

Ilya tried to get the connection back. It kept failing. When they finally reestablished a connection, it didn’t last before crashing again.

Then his phone rang.

“So much for that,” said Shane.

“Are you as hard as I am?”

“Jesus, Rozanov…”

“I saw it. Before the call dropped. You know what I like. Do it to yourself,” Ilya purred. The idea of Shane using all he’d learned over the years on himself was really hot.

Shane’s ragged breathing echoed over the line. “I…fuck. Someone named Alexi keeps calling.”

Ilya’s stomach dropped. That instantly killed the mood and reminded him of the dressing-down Shane endured in his place. “My brother. He will want money.”

Shane went silent for a moment, then, “Should I give it to him?”

Ilya sighed and rubbed his forehead. He rested his hand on his inner thigh and bunched up the fabric. “Make excuses. Tell him it will come but you need to focus on the upcoming games. He will not like it but I sent him money not long ago. It can wait.”

“Okay,” Shane replied. “Your father…”

“Yes. He is very passionate about my career.”

“That wasn’t passion, Rozanov. That was…” Shane paused. “I…did what you said. I listened and agreed.”

“Good. He will call after the next game even if you win. Do the same thing.”

“I will.”

Ilya stood up and turned to look out the window over the Montreal skyline. Shane’s distorted reflection stared back at him. “We will fix this soon. Only a few more days. We can do this.”

“How uh, how have you been handling my schedule?”

Ilya fought to bring back his bravado, but it didn’t come so easily while in Shane’s skin. “Boring. Busy. Too many meetings. Not enough fun.”

“Did you go to lunch with my parents?”

“Yes.”

“Did they suspect anything?”

“I think, no. Maybe. If they know something is wrong, they didn’t say.”

“That sounds about right,” replied Shane with a hint of bitterness. “There’s some more things coming up. Text me if you have questions? Let’s try not to be stubborn about this and fuck things up for each other. Agreed?”

“Mhmm,” Ilya hedged. But then, “Agreed. Now, go take care of your dick. Blue balls are bad for your game.”

“Fuck you.”

“It’s just science. And I am going to do the same. Because you gave me permission, yes?”

“I…” Shane stammered. “...just…don’t sleep with anyone?”

Ilya laughed. “How could I pull anyone in this body?” he asked, as he slid his hand up his torso to reveal rock-hard abs.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious. You’re always serious.” Ilya sighed. “OK. No sex. Just my hand. And maybe that big, thick, Raiders dildo.”

“Roz–”

“Good night, Hollander.” And then Ilya hung up.

Chapter End Notes

If you're enjoying this, I'd love to know! I know it's kind of a weird one.

Chapter 6: Release and Tension

Chapter Summary

Ilya gets off. Shane deals with an unexpected visitor.

Ilya knew Shane was a needy bottom who took dick better than he ever dreamed he would. He knew how he hungered for it without begging, how he accepted it easily without acting like a pushover, and how he writhed in utter pleasure the deeper and faster Ilya’s thrusts got.

The sex was good. Mind-blowingly, cravably good. He daydreamed about rearranging Shane’s guts constantly. Since they’d snapped like magnets to each others’ sexual wavelengths, nothing else compared.

So it was a shock for Ilya to realize how he’d underestimated Shane’s sexual appetites. First, he tried to get himself off with just his hand. He got so close, but stroking alone wasn’t satisfying him.

How far you’ve come, Hollander, from that first time when you barely lasted a minute.

Denying himself and only seeing each other a few times a year had apparently built up Shane’s ability to delay gratification. He’d accomplished that task a little too well.

Ilya tried touching himself between his asscheeks. That helped, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He ached for more.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the bright yellow Raiders dildo and wondered how Shane got it. It was not official, of course not. But enterprising fans could find a way to order it custom, or perhaps some entrepreneur had set up a shop. However he came to have it, Ilya delighted in the mental image of Shane getting up the courage to order it and hoping like hell it actually came in discrete packaging.

Ilya crawled across the bed and grabbed the dildo, then fumbled around in the nightstand for the lube he knew had to be there.

In his own body, Ilya never had the urge to be topped. He loved the power and control of giving, but he also took exquisite pleasure in rocking his partner’s world. Nothing did it more for him than someone unravelling between his thighs or around his lips as they came.

But in Shane’s skin, Shane’s desires needed something more than his hand and dirty thoughts. So even though the idea scared him, he listened to the urges of his body.

It took some awkward positioning and effort to psych himself up, but Ilya managed to ride the dildo. When he got it in there, it was like scratching an itch that had been tantalizing out of reach. He accompanied tentative motions on the dildo with the rhythm of his hand until he finally, finally felt the crest.

Shane’s voice echoed in Ilya’s head as everything hit a delicious crescendo. He fell face-down on the bed, spent and a bit sweaty.

All Ilya could think of, even as post-coital bliss spread to every inch of his body, was how much he was looking forward to doing that to the real Shane once they sorted all this out. Now that he knew how hungry he was, how eager, how much he could take…well, he had a few ideas.

Because this would fix itself, right? It had to. The thought of never seeing Shane look at him from behind his own eyes made his stomach twist into knots.

And even though he was in Shane’s apartment, in Shane’s body, Ilya found he missed him.

Because he wasn’t there, was he? He was in Boston, stuck in his body. Stuck with the whole world either hating or grudgingly respecting him. With a father who constantly berated him and a brother who resented him and saw him as nothing more than a bank.

Would Shane inherit Ilya’s emptiness too, if they couldn’t fix this?

Shane didn’t deserve his life. He deserved better.

“Fucking post-nut clarity,” Ilya muttered to himself as he braced himself to pull out the dildo and roll over onto his back.

It would have been easier to just indulge himself in the wild sensation of living someone else’s life and to enjoy being loved for once. Shane had been a bit bitter about his parents, which Ilya could understand. Yuna Hollander seemed like she could be a lot, and the fact that Shane was still in the closet meant they weren’t faultless as parents.

But it was a far cry from his own situation.

Ilya waddled toward the bathroom. He stared at his own reflection and saw Shane looking back at him with a mixture of satisfaction and worry.

“Don’t worry. We’ll fix this. Then I’ll fuck you the way you clearly want to be.”

Why Ilya felt the need to project bravado to his own reflection was an open question. He was alone. There was no reason to hide what he was really feeling.

No matter how hot it was to know exactly what Shane felt, he desperately wished they were in their own bodies.

Ilya washed his hands and splashed water on his face, then lifted a hand to do what he’d only teased Shane about. He walked his fingers across the spray of freckles on his cheeks.

So pretty.

Ilya often teased Hollander by calling him that, but the secret was that he absolutely meant it. The moment the nervous teenaged hockey player fanboyed at him outside of a rink in Saskatchewan, he was hooked. He hadn’t acted like that, of course. That would have been too brave. But it was the truth.

Being Shane and not being with him was torture.

He could only hope it would end soon.

—

The knowledge that Ilya hadn’t actually jerked off in his body because he didn’t have permission racked Shane with guilt.

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Ilya was forceful and unafraid to go after what he wanted, but he constantly asked for consent.

For a nervous Shane, unused to sexual encounters with other men, it was both sexy and reassuring. So naturally Ilya wasn’t going to do anything without being explicitly told he could.

Shane felt like absolute shit for assuming Ilya would have already done so, and for going ahead with his own exploration without permission. He’d made the mistake of judging Rozanov based on his sexual appetites, which wasn’t really fair.

Between guilt and the fact that he could not figure out if he was attracted to his own body or the idea of Ilya in his body, Shane fell into an overthinking spiral. He exited the bedroom and went to the fridge.

At least the overthinking calmed his dick so he wouldn’t have to deal with guilt all over again as he stroked himself off. He now felt uneasy rather than horny.

Shane started to reach for a beer, but then stopped. Ilya had beer so obviously he drank it, but the idea of putting carbs into such a beautiful body felt wrong. So he closed the fridge and turned to head toward the liquor shelf.

As he did, Shane heard a rhythmic beeping, followed by the clank of the lock on the front door.

“Hello!” called out a woman’s voice in Russian. “You left your delivery sitting out here again.”

Shane froze in panic and watched as a beautiful young woman with a head full of curls rounded the corner. She was carrying an apple cart full of food containers.

“You really should remember the delivery comes today. They pack this food very well, but animals might get into it.” The woman moved through the house like she belonged there, then opened the fridge and started unpacking the food. Then, she realized Shane hadn’t spoken and turned to look at him. “Is everything okay?”

Shane stared at her. He nodded dumbly. “Yes. Fine. It’s fine.”

So convincing. Idiot.

The woman eyed him suspiciously. “Pour me a drink?”

Shane nodded. “Uh. Yes. Of course.” Then he turned and walked back to the bar. As he did, he spotted Ilya’s phone sitting nearby. He picked it up and texted.

Lily: There’s a woman here. A Russian woman. She had a key. She just walked in.

Shane stared at it as he waited for a response.

“Ilya?”

“Sorry. Coach message,” Shane mumbled dumbly. He continued to stare at the message, willing a response to come through.

Jane: That’s Svetlana.

Lily: Is she your girlfriend?

Shane tensed as he typed out those words. Normally, he wouldn’t feel like he had the right to ask that question. He and Ilya were just fuckbuddies. He didn’t need or want to know who else he might be sleeping with.

And yet, he felt a stab of jealousy at what the answer to that question might be. As Shane waited for a response, he glanced up to find Svetlana looking at him expectantly.

“You’re acting strange.”

“Hmm?” intoned Shane as he tried to play dumb.

Jane: No.

Shane relaxed.

Jane: We just fuck sometimes. And we are friends. Old friends.

Shane tensed up again.

Jane: Don’t fuck her, though. That wouldn’t be right.

Lily: Of course not!

Jane: She might want to fuck you, though.

As Shane looked up and across the room at Svetlana, he experienced something he never had in his entire life.

Attraction to a woman.

Shane was, of course, perfectly capable of appreciating a woman’s aesthetic beauty. But desire? He’d struggled to fake it all his life. Seeing Svetlana in her low-cut top and tight jeans and armed with the knowledge she might want him? He felt a familiar stirring between his legs.

He didn’t like it.

There were several impulses and sensations Shane had felt since he found himself in Ilya’s body that were disconcerting. A temper. A desire to swagger and to be the aggressor in sexual situations. Cigarettes. Vodka.

All of that was strange, but not deeply alien. But looking at a woman and imagining being inside her? It was incontrovertible proof that he was not himself, and what was worse, proof he was not entirely in control of his body.

Svetlana crossed the room and reached out to slide her hands around Shane’s waist. She leaned in and pressed herself against him, then lifted herself up onto her toes to peck him on the cheek.

“You need to relax. I can tell you’re tense. I know you hate to lose, but this is so early in the season. You’ll get it back.” As Svetlana spoke, she ran her hands up and down his arms.

The contact brought another zing of pleasure to Shane’s borrowed brain. His mouth went dry. “It matters how you start the season off.”

“True,” said Svetlana with a warm little smile. “But everyone will forget when you beat Detroit tomorrow, and Montreal after that.” Then she reached up to stroke the side of his jaw.

It was weird for Shane to be casually touched by anyone. Even Ilya’s touches tended towards the hungry and horny rather than sweet. It was strange, but nice. As was not having to strain himself to speak English. Not having to think before he spoke was like taking off a pair of shoes that were just a bit too small.

Svetlana looked at him with clear affection. There was tenderness in her eyes, of the kind that could only exist if they truly knew each other.

Even as part of Shane was comforted, the other part heckled. Svetlana was so at-ease with the person she thought was Ilya. She touched him like they’d been touching each other for years. Ilya said they slept together, and he could certainly see it. They made a beautiful couple.

Even though Shane kept telling himself there was nothing between him and Ilya but sex, jealousy reared its ugly head. It put a clock on how long Ilya would pay attention to him. If Ilya liked women, then how long would it be until he stopped telling him his room number? Before he pretended there had never been anything between them? Before they became rivals off the ice for real instead of just in the imagination of fans and sports commentators?

Shane would resent him if that happened. He knew that. “Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Svetlana. Hurt flashed in her dark eyes.

Shane felt immediately guilty. “No. It’s…” he sighed. “I’m very tired.”

“Should we go to bed, then?” asked Svetlana suggestively.

When she said those words, Shane got another one of those powerful sense memories. Instead, this time he got flashes of thrusting above Svetlana and fondling her breasts.

One part of him was deeply into it, but the part of him that was truly him was repulsed. He backed away from Svetlana. “I think…I just need…I just need to sleep.”

“Ilya Rozanov. What is wrong with you?” Svetlana set her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“Please, Svetlana. Please. Just go.” In that moment, Shane’s true self overrode any impulses or instincts that belonged to his body. He hunched his shoulders and stared at the floor.

Svetlana muttered a very colourful Russian curse under her breath that did not translate properly into English, but it was quite unkind. “Get your head together. This is why you blew your game.” And then, she turned and stalked out.

Shane watched her go with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He picked up Ilya’s phone and started to tell him what happened, but kept backspacing. How was he supposed to tell him he fucked things up with someone he was close to?

The next few days couldn’t go by fast enough.

Chapter 7: Slapshot

Chapter Summary

Shane plays his second game in Ilya's body. The reality of the situation really starts to set in.

Playing hockey was the only thing about Ilya’s life that felt familiar to Shane. The colour of the uniform was all wrong, but the game was the same.

Rather than focus on the strangeness of his body, he instead pretended like this was an All Stars team where he had to find a rhythm with his team in short order. His chat with Ilya about the strengths and weaknesses of the Raiders from playing with them was helpful.

Shane didn’t tamp down the flashes of temper or aggressiveness when it came naturally. He let that part of Ilya flow through him. The result was a game that was less technical and precise than his usual play style. He was more dynamic and unpredictable, but no less effective.

Boston was down a man from a penalty with a tie game and one minute left on the clock. Shane spotted the gap and sliced through Detroit’s defensive line. He turned quickly on the spot, sending a spray of shredded ice up against the boards, then trusted his instinct to slap the puck past the second defenseman and right between the legs of Detroit’s goalie.

Sirens blared, the light behind the goalie spun, and the crowd roared in delight. With only twenty seconds on the clock, Shane squared up against Detroit’s Ricky Winslow, a fellow Ottawa native and former junior teammate.

Ricky didn’t look at him like he was his long-time colleague and teammate. He thought he was staring down Ilya Rozanov, cocky Russian asshole.

“Not a good start for your season, eh, Winslow?” said Shane. Those were words that would be friendly banter between respected countrymen.

“Shut the fuck up, Rozanov,” growled Ricky as he slapped his stick against the ice.

Shane hadn’t meant to get into Ricky’s head with that comment, but Ricky fumbled the puck drop quite badly.

Instinct kicked in when the error was made. Shane passed the puck to Marleau, who passed it back to him a second later.

The world slowed down as Shane realized the goalie and Ricky were both out of position. He spun on the spot in a neat 180, crossed his feet skate over skate, and slapped the puck solidly at the net.

Sirens sounded and the crowd roared for the second time in as many minutes. Shane looked up to the clock to see two seconds left. He smiled and felt the full body euphoria that only hockey gave him.

The game sucked sometimes. The pressure, both to be a role model and to be excellent on the ice, was ever-present. Then there were the brand-deals, the public scrutiny and the toxic cloud of whiteness and heteronormativity that coated the sport like smog.

But when it was good? It was fucking beautiful.

The puck didn’t even have time to hit the ice in the last faceoff before the siren blared to signal the end of the game.

Ricky was red-faced with rage as he skated off toward Detroit’s box.

Shane wanted to say something to him, but found himself in a pile of Boston players who clapped him on the shoulder, yelled in his face or smacked their helmets together.

“Fucking A, Roz!” screamed Connors as he smacked him on the helmet.

When they lined up to shake hands, hardly any of the Detroit players would look him in the eye.

They really hate you, don’t they?

It wasn’t deserved in Shane’s opinion. Ilya ran his mouth and played aggressively, sure. So did dozens of other guys in the game. He was also legitimately talented. Probably the best player in the league, even though he’d never admit that to his face.

Allowing himself to follow the instincts of his borrowed body made him a stronger player. Ilya’s reflexes, his speed, his dexterity, were just that little bit better than his own. There was a lesson to be learned there, though it would take time to unpack it.

When he came to Ricky in the line, he barely tapped Shane’s glove and shoulder-checked him in a way he tried to play off as an accident before the two lines of players skated off the ice.

The mood in the locker room was considerably warmer. He entered to chants of ‘Roz, Roz, Roz, Roz’ from the Raiders. More back-slaps and hooting followed.

“Rozanov! Media wants you,” called the Assistant Coach.

“Yes. Coming. Coming,” mumbled Shane. He picked up his phone from the cubby and smiled at the message.

Jane: Good boy. Go celebrate.

The praise made Shane warm and tingly inside. He craved Ilya’s approval, but he’d admit he was a better hockey player than him before he’d ever admit that.

Lily: Detroit’s an easy mark. Their defensive line is ass.
Jane: True. I take back my praise.
Lily: Asshole.
Jane: New Jersey won’t go easy on you tomorrow.
Lily: I won once. I can win again.
Jane: Maybe without so many goddamn penalties this time?

“Rozanov! Hustle the fuck up. Goddamn.”

That was a far cry from the way Shane’s Assistant Coach usually called him to a scrum. That was more ‘Hollander, media wants you if you’re down?’

Shane paused to check his reflection. Ilya’s curls were flat against his head and his cheeks were flushed. He tried his best to fluff up his hair and calm down his face, but there wasn’t time.

As he approached the cluster of sports journalists, Shane’s stomach bunched with nerves he didn’t usually experience. He’d talked to the media dozens and dozens of times. He didn’t like it, but he knew how to do it.

Playing like Ilya was one thing. Talking like him on television was another.

Fortunately, the media scrum asked the same kinds of questions they always did. Shane mumbled his way through it as best he could considering he didn’t even fully understand some of what they were asking. Shane never considered how the journalists didn’t take Ilya’s language barrier into account. Not one of them made an effort to speak clearly or enunciate. They just fired off questions as fast as ever.

“How are you feeling about squaring up against Hollander and the Metros for the first time this season?” asked a reporter before she shoved her microphone in his face.

Shane opened his mouth to say his usual pat answer about playing the best he can. But that was not what Ilya would say.

“Oh, Hollander is still with Montreal? He did not get traded?” Shane quipped

The reporters chuckled.

“Yes, he’s still there. So you’re not concerned?”

“Not after last night’s game. In the box this many times already?” Shane let out a low whistle. “Sloppy, sloppy.”

The reporters chuckled.

Shane fumbled his way through a few more questions, but then the reporters were shooed away. He turned to see a line of fans waiting for autographs.

That was all normal. What wasn’t normal was the makeup of the fans who lingered for an autograph.

Shane signed tons of autographs for kids, especially kids of colour and their parents. There were hardcore Metros fans too, of course, and usually a couple of young women, flirtatious or otherwise.

There were a lot of women waiting for him. Beautiful women. Women in low-cut tops or Rozanov jerseys and tights with chunky heels. Women who looked at him appreciatively and waved programs for him to sign.

The few kids who were there got first dibs on signing. Shane had witnessed the way Ilya was with kids, and it was far gentler and more playful than most people would expect from him. But he couldn’t quite echo that. He knew how to give kids pep talks and encourage them, but not how to joke around and make them smile.

Fortunately, there were only a couple of kids and they didn’t seem bothered by not getting the full Rozanov experience.

“God, that was beautiful!” squealed a woman who had modified her Rozanov jersey into a dress, complete with a deep V. She had platinum blond hair and filled lips.

That gross, conflicting feeling knotted Shane’s stomach again. He kept stealing glances at her tits. When he looked her in the eye, she gave him a sultry look.

Just like with Svetlana, Shane did not like it. He started to get hard. Images of fucking her flashed through his imagination. His body wanted it, but his mind absolutely did not.

“Thank you. Okay,” Shane mumbled awkwardly as he reached out for her program.

“Sign my tits,” said the woman. “Please?”

Shane stared at her. “Pardon?”

“C’mon. Please?” She leaned forward.

“Ah…” Shane stammered. “Is permanent marker. No good.” He held up the Sharpie.

Then with a very un-Rozanov sheepish smile, he slinked back to the locker room.

—

There was no way that Shane could beg off having drinks with the team after the decisive victory, especially with no game the next day.

But Shane was exhausted. The strain of playing Ilya weighed on him. And to top it off, he had to endure another dressing-down from Ilya’s father while he was getting ready.

“Detroit should not have tied the game. They are the worst in the league.”

“Second-worst.”

“That is the same as worst. There is no excuse for that tied game. Your captain does not discipline you. When you are captain, you will do better. You must.”

“Yes, father.”

“You must do better against Montreal. You cannot let Bashka show you up.”

Bashka? Shane struggled to place the name. Then it clicked. He was Ilya’s teammate as a junior hockey player and someone who had been a rival in his teens.

“You mean Hollander?”

“Yes, yes, Hollander!”

Then the line went suspiciously quiet.

“Father?”

“Sleep. Do not drink. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Shane hung up the phone. He stared at his own warped reflection in the glass windows of Ilya’s house. He’d dug out a pair of nice slacks and a black shirt with a soft sheen. He’d played with his hair to style it a little, and even sprayed on a bit of cologne.

He was all dressed and waiting in the wings to play a part, but he didn’t think he had the strength. The idea of going to a noisy club where English would be even harder to understand, where he’d be expected to flirt and dance with women?

Shane shuddered.

All his life, Shane wished he could feel normal about women. He wished he found them attractive in the way his peers did. Instead, he sort of stumbled into relationships when he thought he was just making friends. His lack of full emotional or physical engagement usually meant those relationships were painfully short-lived.

But now he was in a body that reacted to women in the way most men felt, Shane hated it. It felt profoundly alien and uncomfortable, even more than being treated like Ilya or feeling his emotions in a much more raw way. It was as if something fundamental about him had been forcibly changed.

That was when he realized he couldn’t playact at being a straight man. Not tonight.

His phone chirped. It was a message in the team group chat asking where he was.

Shane thought for a moment and perched on the back of the couch.

Rozanov: Sorry, boys. I’m giving a fan some special attention. Have fun.

Shane felt gross typing that, but it was received with great enthusiasm by Ilya’s teammates.

Even though it wasn’t actually happening, even though he was the one who typed it, the jealous pang returned. Just knowing what Ilya saw when he looked at women was enough to stir up those feelings of inadequacy all over again.

You can have anyone you want. You’re just playing with me, aren’t you?

Shane tore his eyes away from his own reflection and marched to the bedroom.

This wasn’t fun anymore. It wasn’t sexy. He wanted his own life, his own brain and his own desires back.

The Montreal game couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter 8: T’es ben chix

Chapter Summary

Ilya has one more game to get through before he and Shane can meet face-to-face. But the oddness of living Shane's life is really starting to get to him.

While Shane prepped for game day and hit the ice against Detroit, Ilya endured yet another packed schedule of physio, personal training, and a conference call with sponsors where Yuna did most of the talking.

Ilya thought his own schedule was packed to the brim, but it felt like there was no time in Shane’s schedule to think, let alone relax.

Did he like it that way, or was that his mother’s doing?

There was an interview with Shane’s high school on the docket, but Ilya managed to convince Yuna to move it so he could focus on getting into the rhythm of the season.There was no way he could do that interview convincingly, so it was a great relief when she agreed to push it.

Ilya got the sense that Shane didn’t ask for these changes very often. So when he did, Yuna was apparently willing to make it happen.

With one less thing on the docket, Ilya was also able to be home in time to catch the game. Watching himself on the ice was not new to him. His father made him replay games over and over to dissect every little mistake when he was a junior player. But that wasn’t him in the black and gold uniform with ROZANOV on the back.

Shane was playing well. Very well. That realization filled Ilya with a mix of pride and jealousy. Detroit tying up the game was entirely up to one of his teammates recklessly getting a penalty that took them down a man, and not any mistake Shane made.

When the game came down to those tense final minutes, Ilya was on his feet. He watched as Shane expertly took advantage of Detroit’s sloppy defense for two beautiful last-second goals.

When the final buzzer rang, Ilya pumpsed his fist in the air and shouted, “That’s what I’m fucking talking about!”

Then he scooped up his phone and texted.

Jane: Good boy. Go celebrate.

Lily: 🏒

Then Ilya sat back down to wait and see if Shane would come out to the media, and if he did, what he would say. If he had been the one to pull off that upset, he would be cocky as shit about it.

What he witnessed was not the way Ilya would have handled it, but it was shockingly in-character. He actually had a moment of cognitive dissonance. Every other time he’d seen Shane in his body, he could tell something was off. But both in the interview and in the game, it was like watching a true doppelganger.

Fucking overachiever. You’re even good at being me.

After the interview ended and the reporter threw to the sportsdesk, Ilya was left feeling empty.

If it had been a Montreal game that exciting, the team group chat would be full of banter, along with a couple of side-chats on specific strategy for the upcoming game. Svetlana would be messaging or calling to offer her thoughts as well. They might have even watched the game together.

But Shane’s phone was silent. The silence allowed intrusive thoughts to sink in.

Was there nothing special about him at all? How could there be if Shane effortlessly slid into his life and inhabited his skin?

Normally, Ilya managed to cover up his crippling self-doubt with arrogance and swagger that was crucially, backed up by excellence on the ice. But now he found himself overanalyzing the game. Would he have made those goals if he was in his own body?

Pride turned to bitterness. Bitterness turned to loneliness.

A text or call from Shane would improve his mood, but no messages came. He imagined Shane surrounded by his teammates and beautiful women, soaking in the admiration for an excellent performance.

Ilya made a tentative effort to jerk off. But the angry, lonely look in his own eyes in the bathroom mirror was a major buzzkill.

For the first time, he allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to be trapped as Shane forever. Could he play the golden boy that his entire career was built on? Probably not. And what then? Would he slip into the ranks of mediocre hockey players? Would he become a national disappointment while Shane excelled in his new life?

This had to be reversed.

At the very least, he had to get through the next night’s game before they finally met again in person and hopefully this whole thing went away.

He was determined to do as well as Shane had, if not better.

—

Ilya woke in just as much of a dark cloud as he had when he went to bed. He was full of nervous, uncomfortable energy so he powered through a too-strenuous workout on the treadmill that left him panting and sweaty.

Even after that, he was still anxious and nearly crawling out of his borrowed skin. So, with hours still to go before the game and a rare lack of a packed schedule. Ilya showered and dressed to step out into the chill Montreal air.

He took time to make himself look as cute as possible, in a cozy hoodie with the Metros logo, and a brown leather Roots jacket overtop that Ilya recognized as being from one of Shane’s earliest collaborations. He also framed a beanie - a toque - onto his head and spent a moment arranging the bits of hair that stuck out of it just so.

So pretty, Hollander.

For a moment, a flush of fondness took the edge off his cloudy mood. The only good thing about the situation was that he got to see Shane’s face every day.

Then he turned and headed for the stairwell and out onto the street.

Shane’s condo was located in the posh, stylish, artsy neighbourhood of Montreal called Griffintown. Here, Montreal’s European charm mixed with modern high-end condos and classy new developments.

As it was late October, the quaint streets were free of snow that wouldn’t arrive in any significant quantity for another month or so. There was however, an appreciable snap in the air. A recent windstorm had ripped most of the leaves from the trees, but the few that were left dotted the city streets with brilliant browns, reds, and golds.

Ilya walked down Rue Notre Dame with its trendy cafes and bars, leaves crunching underfoot. The world felt distant and apart as he passed people on the street. If anyone recognized him, they let him be. Which was just as well, because he wasn’t in the mood to play role model.

The scent of coffee and baked goods drew Ilya into a small coffee shop. It was around 9:30 in the morning, so most of the earlybirds had already been in, and coffee break was still an hour away. There was no one else in the long, narrow, cozy, eclectic cafe.

A barista, a young man with dark, floppy hair and aviator glasses hummed along to a tune as he bustled behind the counter.

Ilya approached and cleared his throat to get his attention.

The young man turned and smiled brightly when he saw him. When he spoke, it was in French. “Shane! Hello. Haven’t seen you in awhile. The usual?”

Ilya stared, then nodded awkwardly. He should have known Shane might be a regular at one of the nearest coffee shops to his building. “Uh, yeah, yes please,” he stammered in English, then repeated in French, “Oui s'il vous plait.”

The barista, whose nametag read Marcel chuckled and switched to heavily-accented French. “Ah, I know. It is a bit early for a second language, yes?”

Ilya smiled crookedly and only gave Marcel fleeting eye contact. More than that felt…uncomfortable, and not just because his current body didn’t much like looking people in the eye.

Marcel was attractive, but absolutely not the kind of guy Ilya would normally go for. He was fit, but in a ‘I bike everywhere’ kind of way, with colourful sleeve tattoos and a conspicuous amount of product to make his already-thick hair even thicker.

When he smiled at Ilya with light in his bright green eyes, it provoked a deep pang in his stomach.

You fucking like this guy, Hollander? Seriously?!

It was not lost on Ilya how absolutely unlike him Marcel was. That produced a mix of inadequacy and jealousy. He imagined Shane taking up with him. They’d be cute together, like the high school jock hooking up with an art student.

Fortunately for Ilya, being awkward in this scenario wasn’t out of character for Shane. So he just stood there with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as he looked at all the knick knacks and bits of art that lined the cafe’s brick walls.

“Ah, here you go,” said Marcel. He sat a cup and a bag on the counter.

Ilya turned and moved over to the counter. He didn’t know what he was expecting from a regular order, but it was even more responsible and mild than he thought it would be. A paper tag dangling out of the cup identified the beverage within as green tea. The bag held not one of the flaky croissants or giant muffins from the stuffed bakery case, but two protein balls.

“Thanks,” Ilya murmured. He braved a bit of eye contact and that zing of attraction popped up again.

This fucking hipster couldn’t do it for you and you know it. He’d want you to be on top. And we both know that’s not what you want.

No amount of anti-pep talk Ilya gave to his inner Shane got rid of the flutter of nerves as he completed the transaction.

“You have a game today?” asked Marcel as he leaned on the counter and gave the man he thought was Shane a friendly grin.

“Uh, yeah, yeah. I do.”

“Well, good luck. You know it isn’t my thing but I wish you luck all the same.”

And he doesn’t even like hockey?!

“Thanks,” said Ilya. He lifted the tea and then turned to go.

As he did, the door opened and two young women entered. They looked at him and immediately recognized him.

“Oh my god. You’re Shane Hollander! My dad is going to freak. Can we have a picture?” one babbled in French.

Ilya gave the fans a once-over. They were about his own age, fit and beautiful in stylish outfits. He nodded to their request. “Sure.”

The girls squealed, then one turned to Marcel and gestured with her phone.

Marcel chuckled, then came out from behind the counter to take the photo. The girls got on either side of Ilya and leaned in.

Ilya tried his best to smile, but he ended up with the tight, slightly pained expression he’d seen on Shane more than once at media events. He stood there awkwardly as the women snapped pictures.

Ordinarily, when approached by beautiful young women, Ilya would chat them up and flirt quite naturally. Hell, he might end up exchanging numbers if there was a good enough vibe.

But it was impossible to overstate just how much he did not want to do that while in Shane’s body. It wasn’t just a lack of interest, it was a desire to get away from them as soon as he could.

One of the girls disengaged quickly and took her phone back from Marcel. After thanking Shane, she went up to the counter to put in her order.

The other girl, a petite brunette with big dark eyes, lingered close. “T’es ben chix,” she cooed.

It took a second for Ilya to realize she was calling him hot in colloquial Quebecois. The realization hit him with a second wave of deep discomfort.

Did he not like women at all? Illya always just assumed that Shane swung both ways like he did.

“What can I get you, miss?” called Marcel expectantly from where he’d gone back around the counter. His look very clearly communicated that the fan was to stop harassing the man they thought was Shane Hollander.

The woman looked between Shane and Marcel, then gave him a once-over, whispered, “Le belle lapin au Instagram,” fluttered her lashes, then sashayed over to the counter.

Marcel nodded toward the door and gave him a sympathetic smile.

Ilya took the cue. He shot Marcel a look of gratitude and beat a hasty retreat.

Chapter 9: Screwing the Pooch

Chapter Summary

Ilya's recent experiences in Shane's body throw him big-time in his game against Winnipeg.

Shane finally makes his way to Montreal. But will seeing each other fix anything? And what if it doesn't? What then?

“What the fuck was that, Rozanov?!”

The game against Winnipeg was an utter fucking disaster. Shane watched with horror as Ilya in his body made mistake after mistake. The rest of the team was not cohesive either, which added insult to injury.

The final score was 5-2 in favour of Winnipeg, which was a pathetic showing for the Metros.

“I’m sorry,” said Ilya in a small voice.

“I haven’t played that bad since the Juniors when I had the flu!” Shane paced in Ilya’s living room while the TV replayed mistake after mistake and the commentators shook their heads in disbelief.

A cascade of Russian expletives tripped off Shane’s Ilya-shaped tongue as he paced up and down the fancy living room with a phone up to his ear.

“What went wrong?”

“I don’t know. I…” Ilya sighed.

Shane paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. He flashed back to Ilya’s father berating him for a poor performance and realized he was replicating that unwittingly. It made him throttle down his anger. “What was the mood in the locker room?”

There was a long pause. Then Ilya replied, “Concerned. They aren’t used to this from you.”

Of course they fucking aren’t, Shane thought. He worked extremely hard to not let anyone down, ever. Let alone like this.

Ilya’s temper had taken hold of Shane. He was normally even-keeled almost to a fault. But in Rozanov’s body, everything felt too raw, too close to the surface. He missed the distance and the quiet of his own mind. It sometimes made it a challenge to relate to others, but it helped him find peace.

The TV replayed Ilya in Shane’s body missing a critical pass that would have set up an easy goal. Then the camera cut to another moment where a delayed reaction to the face-off let Winnipeg have control of the puck which resulted in yet another goal.

“What is going on with Shane Hollander? Is the shine really coming off this early in his second season? Did he deserve to be the number two draft pick?” The hockey commentator on-screen mused. “And how will he fare tomorrow night against Ilya Rozanov and the Raiders, especially after last night’s stellar late-game performance from the number one draft pick?”

Hearing those words wounded Shane’s perfectionist, people-pleasing heart to the very core. He muted the TV.

“Did you do this to me on purpose?” Shane bit out with more vitriol than he intended.

“What the fuck?” Ilya replied. “Hollander. I would not do that to you.”

Most of the time, Ilya seemed to have adopted Shane’s intonation. But there were moments, like now, where his true cadence came out.

Shane didn’t say anything. He just sat on the edge of the couch and watched as the commentators rolled clip after clip of Ilya making errors in his body.

“I…” Shane began.

“No, no. Fuck this. I thought we both understood. We are not enemies, you and I. Not off the ice. We never have been. I would not sabotage your reputation on purpose. Your body, your life. Your…tastes. Your fucking…habits..." He took a deep breath. "I am sorry if I am not as good at being you as you are at being me.”

Shane felt his cheeks flush. A wave of guilt crested over him. He took a deep breath and lowered his head.

Now it was his turn to apologize.

“I’m sorry.”

Ilya was silent on the other end of the line. After a moment, he murmured, “This situation is fucked.”

Shane nodded before he said, “Yeah,” in return.

“Hollander,” Ilya began, “What if seeing each other doesn’t fix this?”

Shane swallowed. He looked down at his hands, then his arms and torso. “It will,” he said. “It has to.”

He’d tried very hard to push the thought of permanence far from his mind. It was wishful thinking that meeting in person would reverse whatever had swapped them to begin with. They had no reason to believe that was actually true.

“I’m making you a promise,” said Ilya. “Tomorrow night, I will play like your team is my team. Like your life is my life. If you do the same. No holding back.”

Shane nodded before he spoke even though no one was in the room with him. “OK.”

“OK,” Ilya echoed. “Tomorrow. On the ice. And then after. At your…my? House.” He paused, then clarified. “Here.”

“Yeah,” Shane replied.

“I am sorry about the game,” repeated Ilya. “Your life…is not what I thought it would be.”

Those words made Shane tense defensively. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ilya sighed. “Nothing. See you on the ice tomorrow. Fight like hell.”

And then the line went dead.

—

The charter flight from Boston to Montreal lifted off early in the morning. It was an exceedingly short time in the air. It almost took longer to board and taxi than it did to actually fly north. The total flight time was barely over an hour.

The mood on the Raiders flight was optimistic. The team was coming off an incredible win and they’d all watched as the person they thought was Shane fumbled big-time in the game against Winnipeg.

With a short jaunt and a game the same day, most of the guys were kicking back with their eyes closed or chatting amongst themselves. Shane found himself sitting at a table with Connors, Marleau and a guy whose name he thought was Carmichael.

“I’ve never seen Hollander choke like that,” said Connors. “Like, fully choke. Whatever bad vibes hit him infected the rest of the team. The goalie kept fumbling the bag, too. And their defensive line was all over the damned place.”

Shane sat there with his legs kicked out and his arms folded over his chest. The perfectionist in him often wondered what his fellow players said about him when he wasn’t around. But after last night, he really didn’t want to hear it.

“Happens sometimes. Talent doesn’t mean you can hack the pressure,” said Marleau as he pulled out a deck of cards and started to deal out around the table.

“Yeah but he didn’t choke last season. He killed it,” said Connors.

Marleau shrugged. “I dunno, man. You never know what’s going on with people. This game’s a head game as much as anything.”

As the Raiders players talked, Shane zoned out entirely. He stared at the far wall and allowed himself to worry that the swap might be permanent for the first time.

Shane would still be a hockey player, yes. Still wealthy. Still with everything he’d worked so hard to achieve. But people hated Ilya. Could he change that narrative if he had to? Could he make people love Rozanov? Or was his image already set in the minds of fans?

And then there was his family. Shane would miss his folks like hell for all they drove him crazy sometimes. He’d miss Montreal, and summers at the cabin. He’d miss being Canadian. Hell, he’d even miss being a role model.

“Rozanov?”

Shane blinked and turned his attention to Connors.

“You gonna play or what?”

Shane looked down at the cards in front of him. He was decidedly not in the mood at it showed. “No.”

The other three looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Fuck, Roz. What crawled up your ass? I thought you’d be a pig in shit after Hollander screwed the pooch,” said Marleau.

“That’s a lot of animal metaphors there, Marleau,” said Carmichael.

“We all have bad games. All of us. Every fucking one,” said Shane. “If you haven’t had one yet, you are going to have one. We would all be so lucky to have it happen so early in the season when there’s plenty of time to get it back.”

“Jesus,” said Connors. “Are you defending Hollander?”

Shane swallowed a lump in his throat. It sounded like it, because it was true. He struggled to come up with a rebuttal that sounded convincingly Ilya. He stood up.

“I am saying, don’t get cocky. He fucked up last night. That means he will be looking for retribution. You…” and he turned to address the rest of the players, “...any of you who think a loss means they will be easy to beat tonight have not been paying attention. The Metros will be hungry. And we need to be ready.”

The Raiders looked around the plane at each other, but slowly they began to nod.

“He’s not wrong,” said Carmichael. “I know if I played a game like that, I’d come out swinging the next time my skates hit the ice.”

“We’ll be ready, Roz,” said Marleau.

“Good,” said Shane. Then he walked away from the table and found a seat at the very back of the plane where he could find a moment of peace.

Playing hard against his own team was going to be hell, especially since a loss would help his bruised reputation.

But Shane made a promise. He intended to keep it.

Chapter 10: Faceoff

Chapter Summary

Ilya decides to try and get more comfortable in Shane's skin so he doesn't blow another game.

The Metros and the Raiders finally meet for their first game of the season.

“Honey. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Not long after Ilya hung up from Shane, then a call came through from Yuna Hollander. He didn’t want to talk to her for fear of what she might say. But Shane had endured at least two phone calls from his own father. He could take one from Shane’s mother.

“Fine, fine,” Ilya mumbled as he paced across Shane’s apartment. “I don’t know what happened.”

“I do,” said Yuna gently.

Ilya braced himself to be berated, to be torn down, or to be subtly guilted in the way mothers sometimes did.

“You’re tired. I’ve put too much on your schedule. I’ll fix that, okay? I’m looking at the next few weeks and there are things I can definitely move.”

The care and warmth in Yuna’s voice shocked Ilya. She didn’t sound mad at all. She sounded concerned.

“Shane? Please don’t be too hard on yourself. Everyone has an off night.”

“Not me,” said Ilya.

“Even you,” Yuna insisted. “Now, get some sleep, okay? I’ll send you an updated schedule soon. Love you.”

Those two words spoken by a maternal figure shot both a dagger and a flood of warmth through Ilya’s chest. He mumbled something that sounded like ‘I love you’ back, then he hung up the phone and drooped bonelessly onto Shane’s couch.

It had been one of the worst days of Ilya’s hockey career. And it wasn’t even his career, or his life. But those few kind words from Shane’s mom-slash-manager were a comforting balm.

If this doesn’t get fixed, he’ll never feel that again. Your father is not going to give that to him.

That dark thought brought the guilt back with full force.

Ilya, a master of pushing aside inconvenient thoughts, stood up and paced over to the kitchen. A few minutes of searching around confirmed what he already suspected: there was absolutely no booze anywhere in Shane’s apartment. He didn’t even have a sneaky liquor cabinet with dusty bottles of vodka.

It was probably just as well. He had a promise to keep about the next day’s game. But how was Ilya going to ensure he didn’t have a repeat performance of the game against Winnipeg?

The mood in the locker room after the terrible game was…strange. The Metros didn’t seem to know what to do with a Hollander who had performed so badly. Not a single one of them razzed or chirped. Instead, they offered condolences like he just lost a loved one.

The team had to be angry and disappointed in him, but no one, save a few sideways looks from newer players, gave him a hard time.

Ilya wasn’t sure if that silent disappointment was any better than the upfront shit-talking and berating from his father (and to a lesser extent, Svetlana) if he’d put in such an uncharacteristically poor performance as himself. The quiet disappointment was just as demoralizing as the outward kind.

Ilya paced into Shane’s bedroom and paused, as he often did, when he saw his own reflection. Slowly, he walked over to the mirror above the dresser and leaned on it. He practiced with hitching his hip, or changing the angle of his face for the best effect.

Then, the solution occurred to him, as strange and uncomfortable it might be.

If he wanted to play like Shane Hollander, he had to embrace being Shane Hollander. He’d gotten into his head because every strange and unfamiliar thing about his borrowed life crumpled up like a nine-car crash. There was no way he’d be able to focus with that hovering over him.

Ilya couldn’t stomach the idea of hurting Shane’s reputation any more than he already had. He needed retribution for Hollander’s sake. The way to do that was to stop spiraling and to lock in.

Your name is Shane. You’re a fucking talented hockey player. Your team, your city, and your country love you. Your parents love you.

At first, Ilya’s inner voice was his own. But as he continued to pep talk himself, things started to shift.

You’re from Ottawa. You are boring in the best possible way. You’re dependable. Steadfast. Predictable even in your oddities.

Ilya stood up a little straighter and rolled his shoulders back. Then he slid a hand up under his shirt and started tracing the lines of his abs.

You fold your clothes before sex. You love ginger ale, or maybe you’re just comforted by it. You don’t let anyone in easily. No one really knows you. You control your food because you like predictability.

The world is sometimes so, so much. So much stimulation. So much pressure. So you retreat to the safety of your own mind.

Ilya’s hand stroked up and down his torso and then he pulled his shirt up and over his head to let the mirror show him the full beauty of Shane’s body. As his inner monologue continued and shifted to Shane’s voice, he started to feel pressure between his legs and warmth spreading up from his stomach.

He hadn’t started this exercise with the aim of getting horny, but Ilya decided to go with it. It couldn’t hurt, right?

You love getting fucked. You’re starved for it. But you’re never passive. You throw yourself into sex like you do with hockey. At every turn, you overachieve.

Ilya’s inner Shane voice cracked on the word starved in a sweet, pleading sound that made him harder.

“And you’re so fucking beautiful,” Ilya croaked aloud as he stared at his own face. There was a deep ache in his tone and beautiful longing in his brown eyes. He parted his lips as his breath grew ragged.

“So beautiful…” Ilya repeated.

“I’m so beautiful.”

The switch to first-person pronouns made him fully erect. Ilya pushed down his sweatpants and underwear so he could grip himself. He leaned against the dresser and gave himself intense eye contact as he began to stroke.

Ilya’s mind ping-ponged between imagining he was witnessing the masturbation and experiencing it. But the point was to truly feel like Shane. So he pushed off the dresser and turned away from his reflection. Instead, he focused on the sensations of his new body.

He listened as his body told him to stroke harder and faster. He listened when an ache between his asscheeks told him the best orgasm would come if he fingered himself. He let himself imagine a sweaty, muscular Russian pulsing against him from behind in a stolen moment in some anonymous hotel room while kissing him hot against his neck.

When Ilya finally came, it was absolutely glorious. He collapsed onto the bed, breathless and satisfied. He let out a hoarse little chuckle and stroked his hands up and down his torso. He paused to cup his own pec and give his nipple a tweak.

Then Ilya closed his eyes as his body vibrated with the last eddies of pleasure. He sunk into that moment and allowed himself to savor every second of it.

Tomorrow, he’d be the best Shane Hollander he could possibly be.

If this was permanent, he decided he could live with that. It would take some adjusting, but he would find a way to accept his new life. He’d also do everything he could to help Shane adjust to his. They could make it work.

Nothing had to change between them, either. Ilya started daydreaming about a body that used to be his pulsing inside his new one. It would feel so, so good.

As hot water of the shower cascaded over Ilya, an odd calm crested over him. A lingering discomfort in his own skin began to fade, leaving Shane wrapped around him like a comforting hug. For the first time outside of an orgasm, it felt good to be him.

With that sensation, dread and fear of permanence ebbed as well. He’d accepted the worst: that he was Shane Hollander now.

That left room to hope for the best: that tomorrow he’d be himself again.

—

Sometimes games blue ball you.

The game between the Metros and the Raiders was definitely that.

The whole day had been very, very odd for Shane, from the trek from the airport, and then to the arena. This was his home, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like coming back to a house you lived in as a child to find someone else living there.

That feeling extended to the away team dressing room and the local media. The fans booed or heckled him as he skated around the rink to warm up. There were a handful of Raiders fans in the crowd who tried to make up for it by being loud, but the overall mood was quite hostile.

Shane had experienced hostility from rival teams before. But as Ilya, it all felt a lot more personal.

“Man, the Frenchies are especially salty tonight, huh?” said Marleau as he slapped Shane on the shoulder and then swallowed water and spat.

“Mhmm. See? Hungry,” Shane mused.

“Well, let’s chum the water, boys.”

The first time Shane and Ilya squared up for a face-off was absolutely surreal. He’d held out hope that the moment he saw his doppelganger in the flesh that he’d feel that weird, sinking feeling all over again and he’d find himself back in his own skates.

Instead, Shane and Ilya locked eyes on each other at centre ice.

“No pulling punches,” Shane murmured.

“Never,” Ilya replied with a fierce grin.

The puck dropped and the blue ball game began. Montreal and Boston were like two equally charged magnets trying to advance on the other.

One would get a goal, and the other would get it back minutes later. Neither team had more than about ten minutes of being ahead before the game tied up again.

While he was on the ice, Shane focused on the game and tried not to look at the faces of his teammates or Ilya wearing his. That was irrelevant. They were the opposing team and he was in it to win.

Sometimes Ilya’s body still surprised him and took him out of the flow, like when he turned faster or hit harder than he expected. But it didn’t take too long for him to adjust.

Ilya’s body really was spectacular, and built for hockey.

As he cycled off and sat on the bench, Shane had a moment to watch the way Ilya moved on the ice.

There were small, subtle differences in what he would have done in the same position, but otherwise it was like watching himself from the outside. It was unsettling.

To his relief though, Ilya also played it clean. There were no penalties and only the mildest of chirps.

When Shane hit the ice for the second period, he decided to lean into Ilya’s personality and style. He moved more aggressively, hit harder and called out whatever shit-talking crossed his mind.

In response to a chirp calling him a lazy skater, Hayden slammed into him pretty hard against the boards.

Yeah, I deserved that.

As the siren sounded for the end of the third period, the board showed 2:2.

Overtime did not break the tie. So when the clock ran out again, they moved to sudden death.

The coach chose three players from each team to hit the ice for sudden death overtime.

Ilya and Shane were not among them.

So they could only watch as Hayden finally weaved past the Raiders defensive line to score that definitive final goal.

Everyone in the stadium was on their feet and the Metros poured out on the ice to embrace Hayden.

Shane was careful with his facial expression, but inside he was beaming with pride for Hayden’s performance.

He was also relieved that neither of them were responsible for the winning goal. They couldn’t accuse the other of not trying hard enough or letting the other win.

But there was a particular kind of…coitus interruptus that happened when Shane wasn’t on the ice at the end of a tight game like that. He was left feeling tightly wound.

When they lined up to shake, Shane tried to catch Hayden’s eye to make sure he caught him saying, “Good game,” with as much sincerity as he could.

Hayden furrowed his brow in confusion at the man he thought was Rozanov and mumbled those words back to him.

When it came to the real Ilya, Shane looked him in the eye and the two exchanged nods, tapped gloves, and headed off the ice.

Not long now before they could meet. And hopefully, whatever this was would reverse itself.

Chapter 11: Call Me By Your Name

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane finally meet face-to-face after a week as each other. But will it fix anything?

Shane stood outside the side door up to his own apartment. He exhaled the last drag of a cigarette and crushed the butt under his foot. The movement felt natural, but then he felt a pang of guilt. So he bent over and picked up the butt, and dropped it in a nearby trashcan.

Ilya was a smoker, but Shane wasn’t a litterer.

He’d craved the cigarette because he wanted to steady his nerves. The more he smoked, the more he saw the appeal. Shane could only hope the cravings wouldn’t follow him back into his own body.

Then he pulled out his phone and typed out a message.

Lily: Here.

Then Shane waited. And waited. He glanced down at the phone and hovered his finger over the ‘call’ button. But then the door finally opened.

On the ice, there wasn’t time to let the oddness of their situation sink in. The video call also had a layer of distance.

But this? This was too real. Too free of distractions.

It made Shane’s stomach go a bit funny to see himself standing there. Ilya’s hair was damp and he was wearing sweatpants and a shirt that looked a bit too small. He must have dug far into the back of the closet to find that one.

Shane wondered if he did that on purpose.

“Hey,” said Ilya.

“Hi.”

“Sorry, I was in the shower. Come in.”

“Of course I will come in. It is my apartment,” muttered Shane.

“Not right now it’s not,” said Ilya with a cheeky little grin.

Shane rolled his eyes, stepped past Ilya into the stairwell and climbed the stairs. As he did, he pulled off his wool hat and stuffed it in his pocket. “I hope Hayden got the props he deserves.”

“Yeah, yeah he did. It was really hard to get out of going out for a drink. I think it hurt his feelings that I said no.”

Shane felt a pang of guilt. Of course Hayden would find it shitty that he couldn’t bring himself to get over his antisocial tendencies to celebrate his friend.

He’d only been gone from his apartment a week, but being home felt…strange. Just like the airport and the arena, there was a distance that was hard to put his finger on.

And then, as he undid his jacket, he was forced to reckon with the fact that nothing had changed even after seeing each other face to face and alone. Shane was still very much in Ilya’s body and vice versa.

“Do you want a drink?” asked Ilya.

Shane walked further into the apartment, He made note of tiny things that were out of place. There was a blanket on the couch that was usually folded. There were two empty cans of ginger ale sitting on the coffee table. His gym bag was by the door instead of tucked into the closet.

“There is nothing to drink in here during the season,” said Shane as he shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a hook by the entrance.

“I went out and got some. I figured we’d both need it if this thing didn’t magically fix itself.”

Then Shane looked at Ilya fully. He stared at him for a long moment. It was…so very strange. That was his body, but it wasn’t him. But it was more than that. The closer he looked, the more he saw hints of Ilya behind his own eyes.

Ilya stared at him in return. Then, his eyes went down, then up to his face. He swallowed and pursed his lips. Then a crooked grin appeared. “Do you feel it too?”

Shane felt his mouth go dry. He shifted awkwardly. It took a moment for him to fully acknowledge what the it was that Ilya was referring to.

Then it hit him. This thing between them, whatever it was, was still very much there. It didn’t care about their bodies. Shane saw whatever it was that drew him to Ilya and kept him coming back for more.

Ilya was very, very physically attracted to Shane. Shane didn’t realize just how much until he experienced it for himself. The potent mix of the invisible thread and the innate attraction should have been tempered by the oddness of their situation. But it didn’t.

They hadn’t seen each other in months. They’d spent the summer waiting for this moment and anticipating it hungrily. Now it was here, and not even a bilocation of souls could temper the flame that had sparked the moment they first met.

Shane wanted Ilya, even in his own body.

He nodded slowly in confirmation.

The nod made Ilya smile brightly and genuinely.

The smile made Shane’s stomach do a happy little flip. So cute.

Then, slowly at first, they walked toward each other. Bit by bit, they closed the space between them until they stood nose-to-nose.

Ilya leaned in first, then paused and wrinkled his nose. “Have you been smoking?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Give me a break, okay? It’s been stressful day.”

“Don’t you know smoking’s bad for you?” said Ilya in his best imitation of Shane. Then he reached out to grab his face and pulled him in for a kiss.

The contact was like a jolt of electricity through Shane’s body. He thought he’d gotten used to being Ilya, but the sudden spike in horniness caught him by surprise. The second their lips touched, he was semi-erect. He breathed in a lungful of clean skin and shampoo and grabbed Ilya by the waist.

If Shane was self-conscious about getting worked up so quickly, it immediately evaporated as they pulled their hips together. Ilya was even harder than he was.

He’d missed him, oh god he’d missed him. Everything was wrong, but it was still him. It was as if Shane could feel Ilya’s aura radiating from within his own body. That overrode most of the awkwardness and cognitive dissonance, and his sportscar of a Russian libido took care of the rest.

I know exactly what you want. You’ve been daydreaming about it. You’ve been thinking about it as you touch yourself. You’ve used the thought of it to calm yourself after bad days or just when you need a release.

Shane didn’t know if any of that was true for Ilya, but it was true for him. He was possessed by the urge to make his own fantasy come true by proxy. So he slid his hands up to Ilya’s face and pressed his thumb past his lips.

Ilya sucked on his thumb and lolled his head to the side and looked at him with sleepy bedroom eyes.

The look fired Shane up even more. He leaned in and kissed with full tongue, probing deeper and twisting in all the corners of his mouth.

The intensity of it made Ilya’s knees buckle. He moaned softly.

The reaction made Shane pull back and look smug. Shit. He’s really feeling it like I do.

Shane knew what he would want to happen next if they were their real selves. He hesitated a moment, but then decided that the opportunity to embrace being Ilya might never come again.

Besides, perhaps this was the way to reverse the swap? If it didn’t, at least it would be fun to try.

So Shane took his borrowed Russian confidence by the reins and slid his hand around Ilya’s hip. He hesitated only a moment, then stuck his hands down the back of his pants and between his asscheeks. He knew from experience how to hit juuust the right spot.

A shock went up Ilya’s spine. He gasped and wriggled and his eyes rolled back. “Jesus, Hollander,” he murmured. The look he gave Shane was hungry, shocked, and impressed. He grinned again. “Let’s see what you can do with your new equipment, yes?” He bumped their hips together.

Shane had never had the desire to top anyone. That’s why his previous relationships with women had been utter disasters. But in his current body, he wanted it so very, very badly. But more than that, he wanted Ilya to feel what it was like for him when they had these moments together.

The movement to the bedroom was an utter blur of barely-contained horniness and tossed clothing. Before long they were both naked and pawing at each other. Eager fingers found all of each others’ favourite spots.

It wasn’t the same as when they were themselves. Neither Shane nor Ilya was fully playing the other, but neither were they fully themselves. It was as if each of them carried a piece of the other in a deeply intimate blending of body and soul.

So when Shane, slicked with lube, slid inside Ilya, he felt it as both of them. His memory filled in the blanks of what the man between his thighs felt, while his body let him feel every moment of glorious tightness and thrumming skin.

And Ilya, who as far as Shane knew, had about as much desire to be bottomed as he did to top, writhed in decadent pleasure and grunted out soft syllables of praise as Shane pushed inside him.

Shane rode the wave that the feeling of dominance, of giving brought him. He let himself sink into the pulsing of his sculpted, muscular body and the tightness around his impressive dick. He revelled in the contortions of his own sweet face as he pressed Ilya’s thighs higher to thrust in at just the right angle.

Ilya came first, and without Shane ever touching his dick. That accomplishment brought Shane a flush of egotistical pleasure which crested him over the edge a few thrusts later. The orgasm was utterly delicious and brought him in touch with every inch of his body.

Shane stayed there a moment, still buried deep in Ilya. He panted and rested his head against his chest.

Ilya slid fingers through his hair and rubbed in slow, soothing circles.

Slowly, Shane lifted his head and looked into his own eyes. Ilya smiled, his freckled cheeks rosy and spent.

So pretty.

The words in Shane’s head were in Ilya’s voice. That should have disturbed him, but with all the other sensations trickling through his body, it barely registered.

Shane pulled out and wriggled up to flop beside Ilya. They stared at each other nose-to-nose for a long, pensive minute.

“I thought maybe that would fix us,” said Ilya.

“Did you really?”

Ilya grinned crookedly. “No. But it was worth a try.”

As the orgasm faded and Shane’s mind cleared, the reality of what they’d just done set in. He’d just fucked himself, as Rozanov. And nothing had changed. He was still very much in Ilya’s body, and Ilya was still in his.

“What has done this to us?” asked Shane. English felt more difficult than usual at the moment. It was hard to focus as the reality of what they just did set in. “And what do we do now?”

Ilya stroked a finger down Shane’s cheek, thumb first, then the back of his hand. Then he trickled his fingers over his forehead and cradled it. He leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

The tenderness was lovely, and sweet, and so needed in that moment. He turned his head and kissed Ilya’s pec. “You were good out there tonight. On the ice. You played like me.”

“So did you,” said Ilya. “Though you could be more of a dick. Hayden said you congratulated him?”

“He played well!”

“You don’t compliment the other team, Ilya!”

Shane froze. Not only was that the first time they’d called each other anything other than Hollander and Rozanov, it was the wrong name. He sat up and stared at him. “Why did you do this?” He sat up and stared at Ilya with his arm braced against the bed.

Ilya sighed and sprawled out on the bed. “Relax. It was a joke.”

“It did not sound like joke, Rozanov!”

Ilya sat up and ruffled up his hair. He sighed. “Look, we’re out of options. This thing is either going to fix itself or it won’t. It doesn’t look like we can do anything to make it happen. I don’t want this…” he motioned to himself. “I want you to have your life back. But we saw each other, we fucked, and I’m still you. Hell, I almost feel more like you now.”

“So you are saying we should accept this?” Shane motioned between them and sat up fully. “That I am you, and you are me now?”

Ilya’s words did ring true, though. After fucking, Shane did feel more connected to his body. It was the missing piece in truly understanding what it was like to be him. That brought a disconcerting comfort to the whole situation.

“For now, yes. Maybe. What’s the alternative?”

Shane hated to admit it, but Ilya was right. There were no other options to try and reverse whatever had swapped them. He looked down at an arm that wasn’t his, then up at a face that used to be his.

“Is it so bad?” asked Ilya, “Being me?”

Shane thought about that for a moment. “It feels nice to play. I feel strong. People are afraid of me on the ice and this feels powerful. But people do not like you. The fans.” He sniffed. “I am not used to this. And English…”

“It’s fucking hard,” Ilya finished.

Shane nodded. “But there is less pressure to be perfect. Except your father…”

Ilya winced. “I’m sorry…”

“No, no. I…” Shane paused. “I imagine my parents are difficult for you as well.”

“Not like my father,” Ilya replied. “It’s exhausting being you. Being perfect all the time. That schedule…people wanting things from me all the time. My family does this, but not sponsors, the press, the coaches, the media, all of it. I feel like I’m not allowed to even make small mistakes. So when I made those big ones…”

Shane chuckled humourlessly. “If you really want to convince people you’re me you will let that haunt you for the rest of the season.”

It was a casual few words, but in them was the implication that they’d be each other for the rest of the season. Or longer.

“You’re good at being me,” said Ilya after a moment of contemplative silence. “You play well, you handled the media well. You fucked…” he grinned and shifted. “...very, very well. If you are me now, my life is in good hands. I will try to be worthy of yours.”

Ilya reached out to touch Shane’s hand. He trickled fingers over the back of his palm.

As Shane looked at him, he felt that same tether, that same magnetism he’d felt when they were themselves. He shifted forward and up and leaned down to kiss him sweetly and tenderly.

Ilya returned the kiss and slid his hand along his arm, then into his hair.

Shane pulled back and looked into the face that used to be his, and past his own eyes to see the man who had compelled him from the second he saw him without his helmet all those years ago.

“I should go…” Shane paused, “...Shane.” It felt strange, but also oddly right. “I will see you in a few weeks.”

Chapter 12: Lost to You

Chapter Summary

Acceptance, goodbyes, and grief.

The human mind is an incredibly adaptable thing.

The weeks passed and slowly, slowly, Ilya adapted to Shane’s life. He needed a crash course in Shane’s high school years to be able to pull off the interview with the alumni magazine, but fortunately the questions were predictable and Hollander was known to be taciturn.

The photoshoot was actually a lot of fun. The photographer commented on how great the photos were turning out as he moved and posed Shane’s body with confidence and with an understanding of the sex appeal he had.

Ilya was adapting, but he was far from happy. The isolation of Shane’s life and the way the world often felt too overstimulating was getting to him. He’d always been incredibly social and not shy. But to pull off being Hollander, he had to withdraw.

He could tell Hollander was struggling, too. He still did a passable impression of him in media interviews, but he seemed withdrawn and sullen. He’d gone through periods like that himself, so it didn’t raise any significant alarm bells. Still, it hurt to see him like that.

Shane said Svetlana kept checking in. Bless her. She’d always been better to him than he deserved. No doubt the period of sullen behaviour would worry her and remind her of his darkest times.

Ilya suggested to Shane that maybe they should tell her what happened, but Shane put it off for the time being. He’d press it later. If this thing really was permanent, he’d need a friend. Especially if he was forced to go to Russia in his stead at the end of the season. There was too much to navigate there alone.

The thought of Shane having to endure Russia and his family made Ilya’s stomach go into knots. There were still months to go before that would be an issue, but they had no reason to think this thing would spontaneously fix itself.

When they met up again in Boston a few weeks later, the mood was…strange. Neither of them spoke much. Instead, they fucked and then held each other.

The first time he was topped as Shane, the whole thing felt deliciously novel and naughty. The second time, well…it still felt mind-blowingly good but the shine had worn off. His body loved the feeling, but he desperately wanted to take what he’d learn to make it better for Shane.

When they parted, they knew it was the last time they’d meet in person for a month and a half. That might also be the last time for the season unless they both made the playoffs.

Ilya cradled Shane’s face while Shane gripped his wrists. They stood nose to nose, their bodies pressed together.

Shane was right there, yet Ilya missed him terribly.

“Maybe…we can meet somewhere if we don’t make the playoffs. So we can make a plan for the summer,” said Shane. “Maybe Burlington? In Vermont. It’s pretty much halfway between us.”

Ilya made a soft sound. “Maybe. I’m not giving up on the playoffs yet.”

Both of them chuckled, but it was a tight, strained sort of sound.

“I should go,” Ilya whispered. “We fly out early.”

Shane nodded, but he didn’t let go.

They stood there in silence for several moments longer, kissed each other sweetly, then parted ways.

—

Shane lasted three more days and a game against Detroit. Then he returned to Ilya’s house after the game, into the silence of a place that wasn’t his.

He broke down. It started as a choked feeling in his throat, then turned into tears, and then heaving sobs. He wanted his life back. He wanted to see his family. He wanted to play with his team.

But more than anything, he wanted Ilya. The real Ilya, not just his face in the mirror.

The sobbing came in waves over the next hour. Shane would get a handle on himself and reach for a drink, or to change the channel, but then the grief would wash over him again.

Eventually he laid down on the couch and held a pillow to his chest as dried tears clung to his cheeks and a heavy numbness trickled over him.

Shane was exhausted. It had gotten easier to be Ilya, sometimes worryingly so. But he was still forced to perform every day.

He also dreaded the day it got too easy, because that would mean he’d lost himself. It had already nearly happened in a few moments. His memories and Ilya’s sometimes blended together in a strange soup. Sometimes he reacted to things the way Ilya would instinctively. His temper was shorter. He had more desire to boast and swagger. He was no longer shocked to see his reflection in the mirror.

Shane had the TV on Sportsdesk mostly for mindless background noise. But then a familiar voice rang through the room.

It was Ilya. The real Ilya, from a preseason interview. He was being his usual cocky, charming self, boasting about how he’d set new records and take home the cup.

Shane smiled, but then a new wave of grief threatened to crash over him. He pawed around for the remote and turned off the TV.

Then he sat up and closed his eyes and pictured Ilya in a tuxedo. He dug up a memory of their rooftop kiss in Vegas. That was the last time they were together as their real selves.

He held onto that memory and tried to sink into it.

It was dangerous, that kiss. But the danger compelled Shane, as much as he protested in the moment. Ilya smelled so good, and the fact that he wanted the kiss badly enough to risk being caught was thrilling.

As he brought that moment into sharp focus, Shane’s hand slid beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. He recalled that kiss in as much detail as he could muster.

As he touched himself, Shane didn’t think about being in Ilya’s body. He didn’t think about Ilya being in his body. Instead, he imagined the dick between his legs was still his own and that Ilya was himself again.

Shane imagined kissing him and holding him, and feeling Ilya inside him. He imagined resting his head on his shoulder in a delicious afterglow, spent from sex and hockey. He imagined staring into his clear blue eyes and tasting cigarettes on his breath in the cold night air.

As he sunk into that memory, into that feeling, something started to shift. It was subtle at first, but then bit by bit, the echoing, sinking feeling intensified. He opened his eyes just in time for his vision to tunnel. A sickening, dizzying feeling swept over him and he slumped backwards.

Everything went black.

Shane snapped out of his reverie by the sound of an old-fashioned ringtone bleating from his phone. His head jolted forward and his vision cleared.

The Montreal skyline glistened outside panoramic windows.

Shane looked down to see his dick in his hand. His hand. His dick. His other hand touched his face, then his hair. Then he laughed in shock and joy. He pawed around for his phone.

Lily calling.

Shane hit accept call

“Are you…?”

“Meet me in Burlington.”

Chapter 13: Starlight

Chapter Notes

Shane smiled to himself almost the whole drive to Burlington the next morning. It felt so good to be back in his own skin. The roads were clear and quiet once he got out of the city. The satellite radio played a mix of rock music. The soulful voice of Canada’s troubador, The Tragically Hip’s Gord Downie, filled the Range Rover.

Well, well, it's all the same mistake

Dead to rights and wide awake

I'll drop a caribou

I'll tell on you, I'll tell on you

Tell on you

 

You've got a boatload of nerve

But I would say you've been told

You work me against my friends and you'll get

You'll get left out in the cold

 

It's the same mistake

It's been a long time running

It's been a long time coming

It's been a long, long, long time running

 

It's well worth the wait

 

It was a two-hour drive for Shane, and three hours for Ilya. But accounting for time to get out of the city during Montreal’s notorious rush-hour traffic and time at the border, the travel time turned out to be roughly equal.

If the customs officer recognized him, she didn’t make a big deal about it. That was a relief. The last thing he wanted was the anxiety that rumours might spread about why he was driving to the States mid-season.

His destination was on the outskirts of Burlington, down sleepy residential streets on a point of land. The Starlight Inn came into view, with its retro sign and stars on each motel door. He pulled his Range Rover into the spot at room number 5.

Parked outside was a slick black BMW M5 with Massachusetts plates. Even if Shane hadn’t driven that very car to the arena in Ilya’s body, he would have recognized it as his.

Shane sat there for a moment and took a deep breath. He stared at the motel room. Why was he so nervous? He’d just spent weeks as him.

He pulled down the sun visor and checked his reflection. His reflection. What a relief it was to see himself staring back from behind his owin eyes.

Shane waited a moment later for a car to pull out of the parking lot, then he jammed a toque down on his head along with a pair of sunglasses. Maybe it was paranoid considering it was only a few steps to the door, but it made him feel a bit braver. Then he pocketed his keys and pushed open the door.

Before he could even knock, Ilya opened the door and stepped aside for him to enter. “I was wondering how long you were going to sit out there.”

Shane smiled nervously and shuffled inside. “I know, I was just…”

Before he could get another word out or even take in his surroundings, Ilya pushed the door closed and grabbed him by the face. He threw the sunglasses across the room and swept his hands up and over his shoulders to drop his jacket to the ground.

But even with the urgency in his movements, Ilya kissed him not with horny passion, but with relief.

Shane returned the kiss and set his hands on his waist. He melted into the feeling and pulled back a moment later. “Hi.”

“Hi,” said Ilya softly. Then he rubbed the back of his fingers gently alongside Shane’s cheek. “Is good to see you.”

The emotion in Ilya’s voice and the slight glassiness in his eyes surprised Shane.

Then a moment later, Ilya gathered him up tightly in his arms and just…held him.

Shane embraced him in return and nestled his face against the curve of his neck.

They stayed like that for what felt like a very long time. Then Ilya slowly slid down and clung to Shane by the waist.

For a moment, Shane was sure Ilya was going to pull his pants down and start sucking his dick. But instead, he just clung to him, head resting on his stomach.

“You are you again. I am very happy about this. Your life is yours again. I tried to take care of it, but there is much to live up to.”

A strange feeling came over Shane. He didn’t quite know how to react to the care and gratitude from a man he was used to just experiencing sex and passion with.

Slowly, Shane sank to the floor too. He reached out to try and get Ilya to look at him. It took a few tries, but then he managed to catch his gaze.

There were tears in Ilya’s eyes that he was trying very hard to suppress. He pawed at his face. “Is relief, yes? Better it is fixed before you infected my reputation with Canadian niceness.”

Shane opened his mouth to say something in return, but then he caught sight of a shape of something out of the corner of his eye. He jumped when he spotted a man in a cowboy hat. “What the fuck!”

Ilya glanced over his shoulder with a lazy little smile. “What, you do not know Clint Eastwood? Clint, this is close personal friend slow hockey player Shane Hollander.” He addressed the cut-out and pointed to Shane.

It was indeed a cardboard cut-out of Eastwood in full cowboy regalia next to a framed movie poster. There was also a framed picture of the Hollywood sign on the wall. Oddly, that was where the theming ended. The rest of the room featured clean and unremarkable motel furnishing.

“Fuck you,” said Shane with a smile. “It just startled me.”

Ilya looked at him again with warmth in his clear blue eyes. His eyes flicked from Shane’s lips, to his freckles, then up to his eyes. “Do you feel good? To be yourself again? Or do you miss being sexy?”

Shane rolled his eyes and then bumped his forehead against Ilya’s. Then he closed his eyes and pressed a hand against his chest. He sunk into the feeling of his breath on his cheeks, the warmth of his body, and the steady thrum of his heart.

Something felt…different between them, like there had been a seismic shift in their dynamic when they were too busy trying to adjust to each others’ lives. It was as if they’d crammed years of getting to know each other into a few weeks.

“Sometimes it was fun to be you,” Shane admitted. He shifted to sit more comfortably on the floor. He wrapped his arms around Ilya and guided his head to his shoulder. Then he stroked his fingers through the short curly hairs at the nape of his neck.

Ilya relaxed against him and draped an arm over Shane’s lap. “Of course. You got a taste of being the best player in the league. You should remember it. You will never feel it again.”

The boast was weak and it was very clear that Ilya didn’t actually mean it. He was clearly trying to get back control after the show of vulnerability. It didn’t help that he followed that up with a nuzzled kiss to the curve of Shane’s neck.

“But it was also hard. They hate you. Hell, even some of Boston’s fans hate you even though you’re out there winning games for them.”

Ilya made a soft grunting sound and slapped Shane against the thigh, but he didn’t argue the point.

“You are faster than me,” Shane admitted grudgingly.

Ilya lifted his head and smiled big at the admission.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late. Head is getting bigger as we speak.”

Shane chuckled. “I was bad at that. The banter. The confidence. The jokes. Also, your father fucking sucks.”

Ilya tensed at the mention of his father. “Mhmmm.”

“How was it? With my folks?”

“They are nice people. Your father is boring. I see where you get it from. Your mother, she is like Russian woman but softer. Strong. A bit much sometimes but I think she means well.” Then he added after a moment, “I like her. But you should say no to her more. She will not be angry. I said no many times as you.”

That surprised Shane. He loved his mother, of course. But she also felt overbearing and even annoying sometimes. To hear her described by Ilya that way made him appreciate her a little more.

“Your mind is very strange,” mused Ilya. “Textures and sounds bother you very much. Crowds are too much.”

Shane tensed and felt his cheeks flush. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ilya looked at him with confusion in his eyes. “I did not mean this as insult, Hollander. It is just observation.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t like having your temper or your libido either. How do you get through the day without being distracted by how much you want to fuck women?” Shane spat out those words defensively. He hadn’t meant to swing at him, but hearing his brain described as strange made him incredibly self-conscious.

“Hollander,” drawled Ilya. He gripped one of his wrists and sat up to look at him face to face. “I like to fuck women, yes.”

Shane tensed and glared at him.

“But you also know how much I love to fuck you. You did it twice.” Ilya teased. “And very well, too. And now I know…” he leaned in, “...just how much you like it. How much you think of it. And…” he leaned in to whisper in his ear, “...I was taking many notes.”

Shane swallowed and the blush intensified. It was true. He hadn’t fucked a woman while in Ilya’s body, but he did experience memories and fantasies. It felt nice, but nothing compared to what they were like together.

“Yeah well I’m sorry I have a weird brain,” deadpanned Shane.

“I did not say weird. I said strange. Strange things can be very beautiful.” Ilya grabbed his chin and looked at him with hooded eyes. “You are beautiful. And you are strange. I am glad we are ourselves again, but it was a gift to see the world through your pretty eyes.”

Shane felt his mouth go dry. He stared at Ilya. “I guess it was one way to really get to know someone.”

“Mhmm,” Ilya intoned. “I wonder if it will happen again.”

“What?”

“What were you doing when the swap happened?”

“You know what I was doing!”

“Yes, and with a bootleg Raiders dildo.”

Shane glared at him.

“But what were you thinking about?”

Shane swallowed. “You.”

“And I was thinking about you,” said Ilya as he softly pinched his chin so Shane couldn’t easily look away. “If we don’t want it to happen again, we are going to have to tell each other when we are jerking off.”

Shane felt a thrill of excitement shoot down his spine at Ilya’s words. Knowing when Ilya was pleasuring himself while thinking of him was thrilling.

“That would uh…probably be smart.”

“And maybe…sometimes, we do this on purpose.”

“What? Why?”

Ilya looked at Shane and slid a hand down his chest. “So you can be best player in the league. So I can shoot sexy photos in ad campaigns in your body.”

Shane wrinkled his nose. “Right,” he deadpanned.

“But mostly so I could know you more. And you could know me.”

The idea was one part terrifying and one part thrilling. Shane didn’t hate being Ilya, he just hated that he was stuck. If they really could control when it happened and reverse it at will, well, that could be…fun.

“Maybe,” said Shane. “But not for a while, okay? I need to try and fix my fucking record.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Oh, I am never living that down, am I?”

“Never.”

Ilya grinned, then leaned in to kiss him. “Can I show you what I learned about your body, Shane?”

Shane tensed at the sound of his first name. But then he smiled. “The pressure’s on, Ilya. No excuse for not making me come.”

“Ay, when have I ever failed to make you come?”

Shane smiled, then kissed him again. Then he stood up and reached a hand down to pull Ilya up. He pulled his sweater over his head. The action produced static that stuck his hair up at odd angles.

Ilya followed suit while looking at him hungrily.

They fell back onto the motel bed and into each other’s arms.

And with Clint Eastwood watching on, they showed each other what they’d learned.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you all for reading along and for your comments. I kick my feet reading every one. I don't suppose I'll ever have a fic do this well in this fandom again, so I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts!

This chapter marks the end of the main story. If you're interested in bonus chapters and mini-arcs related to this story, stay subscribed and read on!

Chapter 14: MINI ARC: Birthday Suit (Pt 1 of 4)

Chapter Summary

Ilya offers to swap with Shane (deliberately this time) as a birthday present.

What starts as a fun little game quickly gets more complicated.

---

This is a follow-up mini arc to the main story that will last 4 installments!

Chapter Notes

Everything changed after they came back to themselves. The tone of the text messages between Jane and Lily changed to be more affectionate and less concerned with keeping things casual. The Starlight Inn became a regular meeting place when long stretches without a game kept them apart.

Clint Eastwood definitely saw some shit.

But Shane’s deeply scheduled life meant those opportunities were few and far between. Despite that, neither of them brought up the possibility of switching deliberately.

They did, however, send a lighthouse emoji to each other whenever they were planning on jerking off - just to be safe.

Their chat soon became littered with a whole coastline of lighthouses in between general banter and sexting.

And then the season ended. Triumphantly for the Metros, with their first cup with Hollander as captain.

Ilya was deeply relieved that the game he fucked up while in Shane’s body hadn’t hurt their season’s momentum. He watched with pride as Hollander hoisted the cup up to the camera.

When May 10th rolled around, Ilya pulled out his phone.

Lily: Happy birthday.

Jane: How did you know?

Lily: Google is free.

Jane: Did you get me a present?

Lily: What are your plans?

Jane: Dinner with my parents. We always go to this nice Japanese restaurant for a multi-course dinner.

Lily: Sounds nice.

Jane: Not really. I don’t have the heart to tell them I’m sick of going there. We’ve gone there for pretty much every special occasion since I moved to Montreal.

Ilya smiled to himself and twisted his tongue around the chain to his cross that was pinched between his lips.

Perfect.

Lily: Well in that case, I do have present.

Jane: ?

Lily: Swap with me.

Jane: What? Like on purpose?

Lily: Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.

The three dots appeared and disappeared. Then there was a long silence. Ilya imagined Shane trying to think up a way to deny it that would be believable while his pretty cheeks burned red.

Jane: You want to go to dinner with my parents?

Lily: No, but you don’t want to go, either. That’s why is present.

The dot danced a few more times before the message finally came through.

Lily: OK.

—

A few hours later, Shane stood in Ilya’s apartment, once again staring at his reflection in the mirror.

The masturbatory swap happened while Ilya was in the shower, so he emerged clean, fresh, and satisfied. Shane took a moment to examine himself from various angles and slide a hand down his slick, wet chest.

Ilya was right. Shane had thought about swapping again. He had vivid daydreams driven by the memory of what it felt like to be in his body. But he hadn’t had the guts to bring it up again.

This time, it wasn’t nearly as distressing or scary as it had been when there was a very real possibility they’d be stuck as each other. There was still a chance, though, that whatever swapped them wouldn’t continue to work the same way.

That was an easy enough voice to ignore though, given it had worked twice already.

Shane adjusted the towel hitched low on his hips and stepped out into Ilya’s bedroom. A red balloon was tied to the bedpost, and an outfit was laid out on the bed. A card sat on top of a pair of tight brown slacks and a dark brown shiny floral button-up

Shane walked over and picked it up. It was an elaborate pop-up card covered in balloons and cake. He opened it.

Happy birthday. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

Shane grinned crookedly, then closed the card and got dressed. When he looked at himself in the mirror though, something was missing.

He wandered over to the dresser and sniffed a few bottles of cologne until he found the one he liked the best. He spritzed it on each of his wrists, then dabbed his neck. Shane inhaled slowly and savoured the scent, then adjusted the Orthodox cross around his neck. Then, he took a moment to let Ilya’s body settle around him like a tight hug.

They hadn’t discussed when they’d swap back. Shane’s own schedule was still packed quite full until his yearly escape to the cottage and Ilya would soon be heading to Russia. So. As little as a few hours, to as much as a week.

Shane frowned at the imprecision, but he decided not to bring it up just yet.

Instead, he pulled open the bedroom door and stepped out into the living area. Shane froze when he spotted Svetlana lounging on the couch in a slinky red minidress with a glass of wine in her hand.

“There you are,” said Svetlana in Russian. She stood up and crossed the room toward him, a crooked grin on her face. “Nice to meet you properly this time, Shane.”

Shane stared at her.

What the fuck?

—

Meanwhile, Ilya stood at the doorway of a high-end Montreal sushi restaurant in the city’s trendy Mile End neighbourhood. He was wearing a suit - an utterly boring suit he’d worn to a dozen hockey-related events. There wasn’t even a fun tie in his drawer. Ilya checked.

If he were in his own body, Ilya would have made his way to the front of the line so he’d be recognized by the hostess and be given priority. But that didn’t seem very golden boy of him, so instead he waited politely. He even came early, because that also felt like a Hollander thing to do.

It gave Ilya giddy joy to make the sweetest, most polite, most Canadian possible choices. Like Shane, now that they were reasonably certain they could reverse it, he had space to relax and have fun.

When it was finally his turn, Ilya stepped up to the hostess. She was a beautiful young Japanese woman and it was strange to not be suppressing the desire to flirt with her.

“Good evening!” said the woman with a brilliant smile whose nametag said Riri. “Mister Hollander. So lovely to see you again.”

“Hi,” said Ilya as he awkwardly looped his thumbs into his pockets like he’d seen Shane do a dozen times.

Riri looked down at the software and her face turned white. She looked at it from him and then murmured, “Just a moment, please.” Then she walked as quickly as she could toward a man in a slim black suit. The two chatted in Japanese.

Ilya watched with curiosity. Then he felt a gentle poke on his arm.

He turned to see an Asian boy around 14 and his family who smiled nervously at him.

“S…Shane Hollander?” the teen stammered.

“Hi,” said Ilya with a smile and an awkward lift of his hand.

“We’re so sorry to bother you,” said the mother. “We told him to leave you be, but he’s such a big fan.”

As Ilya looked into the nervous young face, he felt a little of the responsibility Shane must feel every day. Kids looked up to him too, but not in the same way.

White guys like Ilya were a dime a dozen in professional hockey. Young white hockey fans had hundreds of players who looked just like them.

This kid only had Shane.

Ilya held himself a little straighter and he did his best to smile and make eye contact with him even though Shane’s body very much did not want to.

“Hey. What’s your name?”

“Henry.”

“Nice to meet you, Henry.” Ilya offered his hand. “Do you play hockey?”

Henry nodded.

“That’s awesome. What position?”

“Goalie,” said Henry shyly.

“Oh, so you know what it’s like to be the most important person on the team.”

Henry smiled. “I guess.”

“Did you see the World Juniors game?”

Henry nodded.

“Then you saw Ricki Park stop all those goals and nearly shut out Czechia,” said Ilya. “The rest of the team weren’t on it and he saved their butts, right? When other people make mistakes, the goalie’s there to make sure they can pick themselves up again.”

“Mister Hollander? Em, excuse me, I hate to interrupt,” said Riri.

Ilya looked at Henry again who was staring at him with adoring eyes. He felt a warm glow in his stomach. “Just one second,” he said to Riri. “Do you want a selfie, Henry?”

Henry nodded enthusiastically.

Then Ilya made the hostess wait until he took several selfies with the kids.

When it was all said and done, both Henry’s parents shook his hand and congratulated him on winning the cup.

“That was very sweet of you,” said Riri after the family left the restaurant. “Em, we’re very sorry. I’m…afraid some wires got crossed on our end. I know you usually have the private room booked for the custom Omakase, but…one of our new servers thought a reservation for three in there must have been a mistake and moved you out into the main restaurant. We’re prepared to move the party in there now if you…”

“Don’t be silly,” said Ilya reflexively. “It’s fine. Just uh, maybe somewhere out of the way a bit?”

“Of course, Mister Hollander. We’ve got a table for you. This way.”

The table was tucked away behind a partition wall. It was a perfectly fine table, or so it seemed.

Ilya was two sips into a glass of water when he realized why the Hollanders didn’t normally sit in the main restaurant.

For one, he could hear the murmur of people at the other tables as they recognized him.

For two, there was an odd hum that vibrated the wall from the nearby kitchen. It made the hairs on the back of Ilya’s neck stand on end. The light was also diffused in a strange way that was already starting to give him a headache. The open room was also quite loud, especially from the nearby cluster of teppanyaki tables.

He was in sensory hell and he hadn’t even been there ten minutes.

“Oh honey, they explained the mistake at the front. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go somewhere else? Or we can take something to go?” Yuna Hollander made her way toward him with David trailing behind.

Ilya stood up to accept a kiss and a hug from her, then David.

“Happy birthday, son,” said David.

Ilya smiled in a strained way that felt in-character given the circumstances. “Thanks. And no, no it’s fine. This is a good table.”

Maybe it was a good table for normal people, but filtered through Shane’s brain, it was hell on earth.

Ilya hadn’t meant to endure this kind of torture in Shane’s stead. He expected he’d have a nice family dinner (a novelty) then have fun exploring Montreal (and then Shane’s body.)

He felt Shane’s phone vibrate in his pocket and he pulled it out to peek at it.

Lily: Svetlana knows?! What the fuck?

“Everything okay?” asked Yuna.

“What? Oh yes. Just some of the guys wishing me a happy birthday.”

“That’s nice,” said David.

Ilya slid the phone back away without answering it. He trusted Sveta to explain the situation. “Well, shall we eat?” asked Yuna.

“Sure,” said Ilya as he sat back down again.

Like it or not, he was giving Shane a proper birthday present. He could only hope the food would make up for the overstimulating nightmare Ilya found himself in.

Chapter End Notes

This a four-part mini-arc!

Chapter 15: MINI ARC: Birthday Suit (Pt 2 of 4)

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya's first deliberate swap is not what either of them expected. A disastrous birthday dinner in Shane's stead prompts Ilya to make a potentially reckless decision.

Shane stared at Svetlana behind Ilya’s eyes. “Is this some kind of joke?” he asked her in Russian.

Svetlana eyed him and sipped her wine. “I should be the one worrying about being messed with. It is an outrageous story. Not only have you two been…” she twiddled her fingers, “...for a while now instead of being enemies like we all thought, but you somehow magically switched bodies?”

Shane had to admit that Svetlana had a point. “So why do you believe it?”

Svetlana inclined her head, then shrugged. “He called me while wearing your face. He told me things I know he would never tell you. The story is wild, but I had no choice but to believe him after that.”

Well, that would certainly do it. Shane was aware that the pair were childhood friends. No doubt that meant there were many, many secrets that Ilya would never share with anyone else, let alone him - especially not in the name of messing with his closest friend.

Shane’s embarrassment oscillated with anger that Ilya would tell anyone about them without running it by him, first. But he quickly realized that was an unreasonable thing to want considering they never discussed who they could and could not tell. Given how destructive the secret could be to both of their lives and careers, he had to believe that he wouldn’t have told Svetlana unless he trusted her completely.

Still, the whole thing felt like a boss-level troll on Ilya’s part.

Shane opened his mouth to say something, but then the doorbell sang a melodic chime.

Svetlana got caught mid-wine sip. She swallowed, then held up a finger and headed to answer the door.

“Wait…” Shane began as he followed after her.

But Svetlana didn’t stop. Instead, she opened up the door to reveal Cliff Marleau and a handful of the other Raiders standing on his doorstep, cheerful and loud from pregaming. Behind them, was a stretch SUV, its bass thumping audibly even at a distance.

“Roz! Looking good, man. Come on, let’s ride. The night is young.” Then Marleau grabbed Shane’s hand and pulled him forward.

“I’ll meet you boys at the club!” called Svetlana. “I’m sure that thing smells like your locker room.”

Shane only had a moment to give Svetlana a pleading look before he was piled into the club on wheels with a gaggle of Raiders as they roared off toward downtown Boston.

—

Dinner with Shane’s parents did not end up being the quiet, delightfully boring experience Ilya expected it to be.

In fact, it was a sensory nightmare from all sides.

Not only was the table awful with its horrible lighting and loud teppanyaki kitchen, but Ilya could feel eyes on him all night.

Then there was the food. Ilya had been looking forward to trying the omakase. But the restaurant's mistakes extended beyond just the table mix-up. They had a new chef on-duty who refused the modifications and requests the Hollander family usually had.

When David and Yuna realized that the night was turning into a disaster, they offered to leave and go somewhere else. But Ilya didn’t think that’s what Shane ‘golden boy’ Hollander would do. He’d tough it out and be polite, right?

Ilya had deeply underestimated how sensitive to textures in sushi Shane really was. The meal started off okay, with a caviar topped piece. The little balls of roe popped pleasantly against the roof of his mouth.

But things quickly turned south with the next dish, which was scallop. The flavour was fine, but the buttery way the raw piece of fish mooshed against the top of Ilya’s mouth was deeply unpleasant. He managed to get it down mostly by swallowing and chasing it with a big mouthful of wine.

The next dish was worse. In addition to the buttery texture, the Japanese barracuda had been seared and the smokiness was like inhaling someone else’s cigarette smoke. He barely choked it down.

“Honey, are you sure you’re all right? We can stop the omakase and order something else,” said Yuna with clear distress in her tone.

“No, no. It’s fine…” murmured Ilya. He wasn’t sure why he was being so stubborn, but it felt unlike Shane to be difficult even when he was uncomfortable.

The next dish was a piece of expertly prepared tofu which Ilya enjoyed quite a lot. But the next piece of sea bream was vile to Shane’s palate. It didn’t help that the fire from the teppanyaki grill flared up and sent a plume of smoke their way just as he bit into the weirdly crunchy piece of fish. He gagged and nearly spat the bite out.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” said Yuna as she set a hand comfortingly on Ilya’s wrist. She lifted her hand and caught the attention of their server, then spoke to her in Japanese. “I’m so sorry. We… … Can you … please?”

Ilya only partially understood what Yuna was saying. He realized that was because Shane only understood a little Japanese. That struck him as sad, seeing as he was fluent in French, which was not the first language of either of his parents.

The young waitress looked distressed. “Apologies …right? Value … Hollander … customer.”

The strain of trying to understand a second language was a step too far on the overstimulation spectrum for Ilya. He closed his eyes and leaned forward and found himself dissociating. He felt like he was slipping to the bottom of a very noisy well. His nostrils were full of smoke and his tongue held the memory of unpleasant textures and flavours.

Ilya didn’t know how long he sat there, but a hand on his shoulder pulled him out of it. He looked up to see the kind eyes of David Hollander looking down at him.

“Come on, son. Let’s go.”

The gentleness from Shane’s father was like a gut punch for Ilya. His own father had never once looked at him the way that David looked at the person he thought was his son. His eyes held no hint of judgment, but instead were full of kindness and concern.

Ilya got to his feet and saw Yuna talking to the manager. She held a credit card out to him, but the manager kept holding up his hand.

If it got out that Shane Hollander was a diva in a restaurant and walked away without paying, it might damage his reputation. So it was with some relief that he noted Yuna’s insistence as she finally tapped her credit card on the machine to pay at least some of the bill.

The whole time, Ilya felt David’s steadying hand on his shoulder.

“There, all sorted,” said Yuna with a smile that was a bit forced, and also guilty. “Lesson learned. We’ll find a new place next time.” She hooked her arm with Ilya’s and steered him toward the door.

“I’m sorry…” Ilya murmured.

“Don’t be silly! We kept coming back here because the service was excellent. This new management has clearly dropped the ball. Now, where should we go? A burger? Grab some poutine from the cart down the road?”

They walked out of the restaurant and into the street. The cool and quiet spring night air helped reduce the sensory overload, but it wasn’t gone entirely.

Ilya felt his stomach roll at the thought of immediately putting anything else in it. “No, I think…maybe I’d like to go home? We can do a make-up dinner later?”

Yuna looked at him with sadness in her eyes and reached out to touch his cheek. “I’m sorry, Shane. This wasn’t your best birthday, was it?” She rubbed a hand up and down his arm.

Ilya dropped his eyes away from hers. “It was my decision to still go in.”

“You never have to stay anywhere or eat anything just to be polite. You know that,” said David.

It was then Ilya realized that the overstimulation he’d just experienced in Shane’s stead was far from uncommon. He remembered the kale salad the first time they swapped.

Illya made a mental note to figure out what foods Shane disliked the most and make sure when they were together, he had options he did like. The sensory assault was so miserable that he wanted to make sure he never inflicted that on Shane accidentally.

Ilya said his goodbyes to the Hollanders with a warm hug from them both. He wished he was feeling less nauseous and overstimulated, because otherwise the love from parental figures was something he would have liked to savour.

Soon, Ilya found himself back in Shane’s apartment. He just sat in the dark for a good thirty minutes, then reheated one of the chef-prepared meals he found in the fridge. That settled his stomach considerably and calmed the headache that had been growing since the moment he sat down at that cursed table.

Shane’s phone chimed. Ilya picked it up and saw a message from Svetlana.

SV: They’ve picked him up. Let the games begin.

Then llya flipped over to ‘Lily’ and saw the message about Svetlana. What started out as good fun now gave him a stab of guilt. Sending Marleau and the boys to drag him out now felt cruel, given all he now knew about Shane’s overstimulation and social anxiety after experiencing it firsthand.

Jane: You don’t have to stay. Just pretend you’re going home with some woman.

Ilya stared at the phone, but the message remained unread.

He tried texting Svetlana, but she didn’t read it or respond, either.

Ilya paced up and down through Shane’s apartment, then looked at the time. It wasn’t even 10 pm.

Then he glanced at the coffee table, which held a tray with the remote for the TV, a few other bits and bobs…and a blue Canadian passport with a gold coat of arms emblazoned on the cover.

Ilya picked it up and flipped to the photo page only to be greeted with Shane’s unsmiling face, in a picture nearly identical to his official Metros portrait. He stared out at the Montreal skyline and tapped the passport against his hand.

It felt good to hold that document. His own Russian one felt like such a burden. Maybe one day, thought Ilya, he’d have one of his own.

After a moment of thinking, he crossed to Shane’s bedroom, shoved a few things into a duffel bag, tucked the passport into his pocket and headed for the door.

As he waited for an Uber, he pulled up flight times and booked a direct flight to Boston which he should just barely make if the car didn’t get stuck in notorious Montreal traffic.

If he got lucky, Ilya would be in downtown Boston in under three hours.

Chapter 16: MINI ARC: Birthday Suit (Pt 3 of 4)

Chapter Summary

Shane, in Ilya's body, endures a night at the club with the Raiders.

Chapter Notes

Shane was extremely grateful that Ilya’s body was far more difficult to send into sensory overload than his own. Otherwise, the crowded stretch SUV ride with the already-drunk Raiders and the subsequent crush of the club would have been unbearable.

As it was, Shane was just kind of annoyed. The club was loud and Ilya’s teammates were drunk and a bit obnoxious. They’d taken the (very) long way to the club and instead cruised the party SUV through the streets of downtown Boston while shots and beers got passed around. When they finally arrived, they skipped right to the front of the line much to the dismay of the long line of people waiting outside.

That was, until a group of jocks, one of whom was wearing a Raiders jersey, bellowed “ROZANOV! FUCKIN’ A!” at him. “Sign my jersey, bro!”

Shane started to move toward the guy instinctually. He was used to giving people autographs whenever they asked unless he really couldn’t. But before he could move more than a step, Marleau pressed a hand against his shoulder and shoved him inside.

The club was a massive multi-layered space with a thumping DJ and flashing lights with a ring of private rooms around the perimeter. It was the kind of place Shane would ordinarily avoid like the plague because it would have been a sensory nightmare. But processed through Ilya’s brain, it wasn’t so bad.

If this was how everyone else experienced a night out, it made a lot more sense why people enjoyed it. It took Shane a very long time to realize he saw the world differently to most people. He still didn’t know the full extent of it, at least not before the swap.

It was ironic that being Ilya made Shane learn things about himself.

“What’s up with you, Roz?” asked Connors. “You look like you don’t want to be here.”

“Yeah, which makes no damned sense since this whole party was your idea,” said Marleau as he slung a beefy arm around Ilya’s shoulders.

The one point of overstimulation was the language barrier. In the loud club, he had to really concentrate to understand what the hell Ilya’s teammates were saying to him.

How do you understand anyone when you’re drunk, Rozanov? Jesus Christ.

Shane had been pretending to drink at the same rate as his temporary teammates, but he faked most of the sips. It was a trick he did as himself, too. It made him appear social with a much lower risk of actually getting drunk. Still, to keep up the ruse, he’d consumed more than he wanted to and the world was getting a little fuzzy at the edges.

“Just things on my mind, is all,” murmured Shane as he took another pretend sip of his beer.

“Ah, is this about the Cup?” asked Connors. “Fuck that. Fuck Montreal!” Then he turned to his teammates and repeated, “FUCK MONTREAL!”

The other Raiders joined in the chorus and took big gulps of their drinks.

“And fuck Hollander, too. Right, Rozanov?” asked Marleau.

Shane’s stomach clenched. What did Ilya usually say when someone insulted him? His own strategy was to agree but not add to the vitriol.

He tried to remember Ilya in interviews. Usually when he was asked, he made it about himself. About how he would be better next time. Something cocky where he talked himself up instead of talking Shane down.

But did he do that with his teammates too? Or was it a free-for-all of shit-talking like so much other locker room talk?

“Roz? You all right? You’re not wasted already, are you?”

Shane realized he was taking too long to respond. As himself, people were used to him being quiet or taking a long time to formulate calm responses. But Ilya was a much more natural chirper who was always quick with a reply.

The eyes of the Raiders started to bore holes in his skull. They knew something was up.

Shane swallowed and dug deep to find his inner Ilya.

“Fucking Hollander did not keep us from the Cup. That was Hunter. New York knock us out of playoffs, not Montreal.” Shane shoved Marleau’s shoulder to emphasize the point. “Or have you been hit in the head too many times to remember this, Marleau?” He reached up to knock gently on the big man’s head.

Laughter echoed around the group. Someone in the back yelled, “FUCK NEW YORK THEN!”

“FUCK NEW YORK!”

Then they all drank together.

“C’mon,” said Connors. “We have the balcony reserved.”

—

Thanks to how drunk the Raiders were, Shane was able to fly mostly under the radar as he watched the hottest people in Boston get sweaty and dance from the comfort of the VIP loft.

At one point, some of the players rounded up some beautiful women and let them into their private area. Several of them made a beeline for Shane, but they were either steered off by one of the other players or his demeanor let them know he wasn’t interested.

But that wasn’t entirely true. Shane had Ilya’s appetites and his sexuality, which meant the short skirts, full lips and low tops of these women held way more appeal than they ever had as himself. For a moment, he was even tempted to accept one of their offers for a dance.

The woman was gorgeous, objectively. Even Shane as himself would admit that. She had long, dark, wavy hair, porcelain skin, sensual dark eyes and a curvy, slim body dressed to show every inch of it off. She smelled great and looked soft. He imagined kissing the curve of her neck, or fondling her breasts as he…

Shane swallowed and looked away. A moment later, Connors beckoned her away with a promise of a drink, much to his relief.

There was a time where Shane would have given anything to feel the way other men did about women. But since being with Ilya and learning the ways he could feel intense pleasure without a woman, he no longer wished for that.

Even after the woman left him alone, the tingle of arousal lingered.

Shane pulled out his phone and flipped over to ‘Jane.’

Jane: You don’t have to stay. Just pretend you’re going home with some woman.

The timestamp was from nearly three hours prior.

Shane typed out a response.

Lily: Not giving you the satisfaction.

He hit send, then waited for a response but the message remained unread.

“Dance with me,” said a familiar female voice.

Shane looked up to see Svetlana standing there, a martini glass in her hand. The way the flashing lights of the club played off her skin and the sheen of her dress was mesmerizing.

Ilya found her very attractive, that much was clear.

Shane then found himself in the very strange position of being jealous of his own thoughts.

“I…”

Svetlana took another sip of her drink and then set it aside. She grabbed his wrist gently, then leaned in to whisper, “The boys are talking. Pretend like you’ve been waiting for me all night.” She then reached down to take his hand and guide it to her waist.

Shane looked up and realized that many of the Raiders were indeed looking his way. He clearly hadn’t flown as under the radar as he thought he had.

It would be very odd for Russia’s greatest love machine to ignore every woman in the hot, sweaty club unless he wanted one woman in particular. He realized Svetlana was offering him an out.

So Shane did his best to push himself to the side and let Ilya’s body guide him. He flexed his hand against her hip, then moved it up to her waist. He pulled her close and his hand found the bare skin at the small of her back.

So soft. So much softer than a man.

Svetlana leaned in too, and touched his cheek.

The arousal that had faded to an ember after the last woman left was rekindled again in an instant. When Shane looked at her, he felt memories, not just fantasies, of making love to her.

Shane leaned in as if to kiss her, but Svetlana turned her head instead.

She slid a hand down his arm, took it, and led him toward the stairway.

Shane’s head was a muddled mess of confusion. Ilya’s body wanted Svetlana, remembered being with Svetlana. But the part of him that was still himself felt an odd mixture of revulsion and jealousy at the prospect.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here,” Svetlana whispered into his ear as they found a spot on the dance floor. “Just let them see us first.”

Shane set his hands on Svetlana’s waist as the pulsing club music gave way to something more sensual. They writhed against each other as the bass thumped and the lights spun.

Then, bit by bit, Svetlana led them into a glut of people until they were no longer visible from the VIP balcony. Instead of leading him toward the exit, she angled him toward a row of VIP private rooms. She pulled out her phone and unlocked it with a QR code.

“Go on,” said Svetlana with a mischievous grin.

Shane wondered if maybe the VIP room had a separate exit, so he stepped inside as Svetlana closed the door behind him.

“Surprise,” said Ilya as he sat on a plush L-shaped couch, a bottle of champagne on ice on the table in front of him.

“What the fuck?! What are you doing here?” Shane felt a mix of panic and relief. It was good to see him, but coming to Boston, coming to the same club, was incredibly risky.

Ilya got up. At least he hadn’t found some out-of-character clothing to wear. He was in the suit he’d laid out for dinner with Shane’s parents. He stepped forward and grinned cheekily. “Well, I felt bad for throwing you to the wolves. So I’m here to rescue you.”

“Svetlana could have done that. Il…” Shane stopped himself from saying his real name. “...Shane…what if people see you?”

“No one expects me…” Ilya put emphasis on that last word, “...to be here. They are all very drunk. Sveta knows the manager so she brought me in through the fire exit. No one saw me. Relax. I wouldn’t be doing this unless I thought we could pull this off.”

As Ilya stepped forward, he slid his hands over Shane’s shoulders. He shifted close with a hungry look in his eyes and an amused smile on his face. “You’re drunk.”

“Only a little,” Shane replied. “The fucking Raiders drink like frat boys.”

“That they do,” drawled Ilya. He slid his arms up to Shane’s neck. His eyes drifted down to the deep v of his shirt.

This was fucking dangerous. If anyone saw them together, there would be no talking their way out of it. It would have been bad enough to catch them together when they both had a good reason to be somewhere. But Shane Hollander, travelling all the way to Boston to see Ilya Rozanov in a sweaty club? Scandal.

That’s what made it so hot.

Shane always loved the forbidden part of their relationship, even if he’d never admit it. The stolen moments in anonymous hotel rooms, their homes, and now the Stardust Motel in Vermont were sweet and heightened because of the danger.

The ember the anonymous woman lit and Svetlana stoked suddenly roared into a bright flame. Shane wanted him far more intensely than any beautiful woman in the club. He wanted him with his whole body, not just his dick.

He wanted him both because of and in spite of the fact that he was currently wearing his skin.

It was Shane who kissed first and pressed Ilya back against the wall. A nearby mirror rattled at the force of it. He pressed his tongue immediately past his lips and slid his hand down to grab a handful of ass.

His mind flooded with Ilya’s memories of railing him. Shane wanted that, and he knew Ilya wanted it, too. He knew that Ilya’s current body was begging for it as much as Shane wanted to give it.

Ilya kissed him back hungrily and desperately, like he’d barely kept control of his borrowed libido. He made a soft moaning sound when their lips parted for a brief moment of air. But then he dove back in again and threaded his fingers through Shane’s hair.

Shane pressed his bulk against Ilya and grinded him against the wall. He felt Ilya’s arousal straining against his pants and he rocked his own bulge against it. Then he grabbed Ilya’s shoulder and spun him to face the wall.

Ilya let out a laugh of surprise. “Not even going to look me in the eye?”

“Shut up,” murmured Shane as he kissed the curve of Ilya’s neck and reached around to undo the front of his trousers.

But when he tried to reach his hand inside Ilya’s pants, he caught Shane’s wrist in a firm grip.

“Uh uh uh. It’s my turn to come hands-free,” Ilya taunted.

Shane let out a growl of frustration, but he withdrew his hand and undid his own trousers.

“Pocket,” Ilya murmured breathlessly.

Shane reached into his suit jacket pocket and found a small bottle of lube and a condom. He wasted no time in dropping his pants the rest of the way. He tore open the condom wrapper with his teeth and wrapped himself up, then opened the lube and smeared it everywhere it needed to go. He worked his fingers between Ilya’s cheeks and hit juuust the right spot.

The strength of the reaction caught Ilya off-guard and he moaned lewdly and wriggled beneath him. “Get the fuck on with it,” he said through gritted teeth.

Shane pressed one hand against the back of his neck and the other against Ilya’s hip. He shifted forward, slowly at first, and then deeper and deeper. He let his borrowed body’s muscle memory guide him, along with the intimate knowledge of Ilya’s current anatomy.

Soon, Shane was thrusting like he’d been topping for years instead of only topping in Ilya’s body a few times. He shifted Ilya around after a moment to shove his face down against a table and then shifted things for the perfect angle for maximum pleasure for Ilya. He fucked him like he’d always secretly wished Ilya would fuck him.

It was a good thing the music out in the club was as loud as it was, because Ilya couldn’t stop himself from singing the world’s lewdest song. Tears streamed down his eyes as they watered. He gripped so tight into the back of a velvet chair that he tore some of the stitches.

Ilya came first, all without Shane so much as touching his dick. The sight of that made Shane come a moment later.

Shane leaned over Ilya, his breathing heavy, his body slick with sweat. He knew then that no sex with any woman, no matter how beautiful, could compare to that. His whole body was humming with filthy pleasure.

“Not bad,” said Shane as he slapped Ilya’s ass.

“Not so bad yourself,” said Ilya breathlessly and with a crooked smile. “Fuuuuck.” They parted and gathered up their clothing and did what they could to clean up their mess and make themselves look presentable. Then they promptly started making out again.

There could have easily been a round two after a little time to catch their breaths, but there was a solid rap on the door a moment later.

Svetlana stuck her head in, took one look at them, and grinned. “OK, boys. Time to go. You…” she pointed at Shane. “Come with me. You…” she pointed at Ilya. “Back out the way you came.”

“Sveta I love you, Svetulya, you are the best,” said Ilya as he blew her kisses.

Svetlana just rolled her eyes and reached for Shane’s arm.

“Wait…what now?” asked Shane before he let Svetlana pull him from the room.

“Meet you back at your place,” said Ilya with a shit-eating grin that looked completely out of place on Shane’s face. His cheeks were flushed red which made his freckles stand out even more.

Shane was hit with a wave of desire to bend him over the table again. But he just nodded, and let Svetlana lead him back out into the club.

Chapter End Notes

There will be one more installment of this mini-arc!

I hope you're enjoying this smutty little side story!

Chapter 17: MINI ARC: Birthday Suit (Pt 4 of 4)

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya deal with the aftermath of their night out as each other.

--

This is the final installment of this mini-arc!

Chapter Notes

Ilya pulled the nondescript sedan rental car into a tree-shaded parking spot that wouldn’t be easily spotted from the road. He almost jumped into a cab when he arrived at the airport, but realized fairly quickly that one exchange at the rental counter would be less conspicuous than a couple of cab rides. Especially if the cabbie turned out to be a hockey fan, which in Boston was highly probable.

Although the drive from the club was short, it was still uncomfortable. The seat warmer on the rental car definitely helped. Ilya just grinned to himself as he remembered Shane completely losing control.

It was worth the discomfort.

After he parked the car, Ilya let himself into his own house with Svetlana’s spare keys. He hung them on a peg by the door, then touched the complicated lighting panel to turn the lights on.

Immediately, Ilya was under sensory assault. The lights were too bright and too white. He lifted an arm to block his face and walked further in. Things were much better in the living area under indirect light, but it was still a bit too much. So he crossed to the main lighting control panel and spent a few minutes futzing with it until the lights were no longer offensive.

Then Ilya saved the configuration as the new default.

He waited a few minutes for Shane to appear and was just about to text when his phone pinged with a message from Svetlana.

It said one word: shots.

Ilya smirked to himself and hearted the message. As he shifted, his ass pinged and he winced. He braced a hand against one cheek, then glanced toward the bathroom and got an idea.

He filled the jacuzzi tub full of hot water and Epsom salts, then stripped down and eased himself into the bath. Ilya immediately felt relief as he positioned himself just so. He kept the jets off at first, but eventually turned them on at a very low level - just enough to keep the water circulating.

It was a curious sensation to soak in Shane’s body. The warm water, the gentle pulse of the jets and the low bathroom lights soothed his nervous system. He’d added a generous amount of salt, which gave the water a viscous quality that was not entirely unpleasant and made floating easier. It was also a large enough tub that he was able to stretch out and relax.

As himself, Ilya was too impatient to soak in a bathtub, so he’d rarely used it. He much preferred the efficiency of a shower. But filtered through Shane’s mind, the quasi-sensory deprivation was delicious.

Still, he could only take so much. So Ilya got out and only took a brief moment to ogle his wet, slick body. Then he hit the button to let the tub drain and stepped into the shower to soap up and rinse off.

He was feeling very good. Ilya had been fucked, soaked, and decompressed from the noise of the club.

Shane’s body felt everything more intensely. It meant sensory overload, but also meant quiet, soft light and warm water soothed it more readily as well. The little lingering twinges of pain were also pleasant in their own way, though the hot water and Epsom salts did a lot to take the edge off.

Ilya crossed to the bedroom. The silence of the house wrapped around him like a soothing blanket. The low, indirect lights were perfect.

He opened the dresser and pawed through to find something to wear. The moment Ilya’s fingers touched a familiar item, he knew just the thing.

—

“What the fuck are you wearing?” asked Shane as he fumbled with his keys the moment he stepped through the door. He hadn’t realized Ilya had left the door unlocked, so in his drunkenness, he’d locked the door and had to unlock it again.

There, sitting on the couch was Ilya in his body, wearing a Boston Raiders t-shirt and a pair of matching tiny athletic shorts. He stood up and walked across the room. “I had a bath because you fucked me raw. Didn’t feel like getting back into that suit. What took you so long?”

Shane weaved on his feet and pawed at his face. “Fucking Raiders caught us on the way out and made me do two rounds of shots before Svetlana could get us out of there. Then it took forever to get a car. The team tried to make me drive home in the limo but…” he reached out to brace himself against a console table, “...I knew they’d just drink more and take even longer to get home.”

Ilya just grinned the biggest shit-eating grin at him and reached up to grab the collar of Shane’s jacket to help him remove it. Then he bent down to undo his shoes for him. “That was a good call. You’d be out for hours still if you’d gone with them.”

Shane looked down at Ilya and noticed how short the shorts really were. They just barely covered his own respectably fat ass. He couldn’t imagine how they covered the cakes from Ilya’s bakery.

If he thought about it too much, he’d get too horny…and also embarrassed. Fortunately, the amount of alcohol in his system was making it hard to hold onto any thought at all.

Ilya straightened up and then walked toward the kitchen where he poured Shane a pint sized glass of water. He pushed it across the counter. “Drink.”

Shane weaved behind him and slumped heavily at the stool in front of the counter and picked up the glass. He drained half of it before speaking. “It was stupid of you to come here.”

Ilya cocked his head and just grinned.

“What?”

“You just said whatever you said in Russian.”

“I did? Fuck,” Shane braced a hand against his head. “This is so hard. The English. Even when not…drunk.”

“It’s a lot easier than it used to be. The first time we met, you were lucky I understood you at all.” Ilya leaned on the counter and continued to look very amused.

“Mhmmm. So what now? You should…we should…” Shane winced and felt a tinge of nausea. He waggled a finger between them. “Go back. Then I go…back.”

“What’s the hurry?” asked Ilya.

“Schedule,” Shane murmured as he closed his eyes. The apartment was relatively dark and he was grateful for it. “Things to do.”

“Oh, there’s nothing on your schedule,” said Ilya smugly. Amusement danced in his eyes in a way that was very un-Shanelike. “I told you, your mother will clear it for you. All you have to do is ask.”

Shane nearly sputtered the mouthful of water he was drinking out his nose. “You did?! For how long?” The idea of backing out of his obligations was so alien to him that half the time he didn’t even consider that to be a viable option.

“For the next week. I said I wanted my real birthday present to be a week off considering the dinner was a disaster.”

Shane fought through the drunkenness to focus on Ilya. “A disaster? How?”

“I’ll tell you later. But, I promise I didn’t embarrass you,” Ilya held up a hand.

Shane was too drunk, too tired, and too discombobulated to argue, but he definitely would interrogate Ilya about it later.

“So what now?”

“Now?” Ilya glanced over his shoulder at a clock on the wall, which showed it was nearly 3 AM. “Now, we sleep. Tomorrow, we switch back. Maybe after the hangover is better. You drank. It’s only fair if you get the consequences.”

“You can hold your liquor though, right? Russian?” Shane mumbled.

“Mhmm. Yes. But still. Come on. Sleep.”

After a bit of fumbling around, Ilya helped Shane strip down to his underwear and both of them crawled into bed. Ilya snuggled up beside him and drew the blankets over them both.

As he drifted off to sleep with Ilya’s head on his chest, Shane realized that this was the first time they’d shared a bed without having sex.

It was nice.

—

They slept entangled in each other until close to noon. After they forced themselves out of bed, Ilya helped Shane recover with sports drink, coffee, and breakfast ordered from his favourite Russian restaurant.

Shane demolished the syrnikis - Russian cheese pancakes covered in blueberry jam, buckwheat porridge and fried eggs as Ilya watched on with amusement.

They decided between them that Ilya would just have oatmeal with dried fruit, as too many of the items on the menu were unknown texturally for Shane’s system. He did end up trying a few bites of the pancakes and then stealing one from Shane.

Then, without discussing it, both of them knew it was time to return to their own bodies. They embraced, kissed each other sweetly, then stepped back and slid their hands between their legs.

Shane thought for a moment that it might be awkward to get hard just jerking off in front of each other without other foreplay and while both were still recovering, but it didn’t take long at all before he was fully erect. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch Ilya as he did, but something told him physical contact would interrupt what they wanted to happen.

After a little bit of coaxing and a horny eye contact, they reached their mutual climax. As they did, the now-familiar slipping sensation gripped him.

It was different with Ilya in the room instead of a country away. For a moment, Shane felt like he was both himself and Ilya at the same time. It was a disconcerting, hazy sensation.

But soon enough, he felt a falling, sinking feeling and slipped back into his own skin. Shane pulled in a sharp breath and looked down to see his own dick in his hand.

Ilya smiled a crooked smile at him and gave himself one final jerk. “Welcome back. Ah…fuck…” he flared his nostrils and touched his temple.

“Sorry. I guess the hangover’s not…totally gone.” Shane smiled crookedly. But then he experienced his own aftermath as he reached for a tissue on the counter. “Ah…” He felt pressure between his asscheeks and a pulse of residual pain.

“That…that is your own fault,” said Ilya with a chuckle while his fingers massaged his temple. “I would not have fucked you quite so hard. You are not a very good top. Very selfish,” he teased.

“Fuck off,” Shane muttered, though those words carried amusement instead of anger. After cleaning himself up, he bent forward with his arms on the kitchen counter. He took a few deep breaths. Then, he started to laugh.

Ilya joined him in the laughter, then stepped forward to embrace him. He kissed his forehead, his cheek, then gripped his chin and kissed his lips. “You have good birthday?”

Shane thought about it, then nodded. “It was nice to…”

Ilya looked at him expectantly.

“...spend…” Shane swallowed, “...it with you.” Then he added, as a qualifier, “...as you. Clubs suck as me but it wasn’t so bad as you.”

Ilya’s expression softened at the first part, but the second part appealed to his ego, so that prompted a big grin. “Yes, you know what it is like to have all of Boston wanting you.” Then he gave his waist a gentle squeeze. “Stay. For today. Sitting on a plane with your asshole worked that hard would not be fun.” He touched his chin and leaned in to kiss him.

Shane kissed back, then smiled shyly and looked away. He felt his cheeks pinken. “That really was my own fault, wasn’t it? I didn’t think it would be so easy to get carried away.”

“Yes. But was fun. I love to take you, but it is nice to know what it feels like for you.” There was a gentleness to Ilya’s words, even if the content was still pretty horny. The way he held him was likewise gentle. It was an embrace for its own sake, and not as a prelude to anything.

Shane leaned against Ilya and felt his solid frame absorb his weight. He breathed in hints of last night’s cologne and kissed the curve of his neck. “I’ll stay. Just for today, but tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow…” groused Ilya, “...tomorrow is tomorrow. For now, you stay, yes? Rest.” He looked Shane in the eye, then bumped his nose against his cheek.

That gentle gesture sent a flush of warmth through Shane’s body. It was not a horny flush, but one of a different kind. His heartbeat quickened. “Thank you for my birthday present,” he whispered.

“Anytime,” Ilya replied.

Chapter End Notes

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