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, Svetlana Vetrova, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Not a lot of angst, Fluff and Smut, Author still knows very little about sport in general and hockey in particular but googles lots, Author just wants her boychiks to have a lovely time, HEA but I cried in bits, canon accurate homophobia, CCM remix, Yuna is cunning, We're going to the cottage

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Barriers

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-17 Completed: 2026-09-05 Words: 60,313 Chapters: 13/13

Every Other Fucking Barrier

Summary

In part one of this series, Language Barrier, Shane and Ilya met in Russia the summer before their rookie year, when Shane was tutoring English at a summer hockey camp. They fell hard and came into the draft with full intentions of continuing to hook up at every opportunity.

This story picks up where Language Barrier left off. Ilya's in America now, and the hockey world knows they're friends, not rivals. But there's still a gaping chasm between what they want, and what they're allowed. They're in their rookie years and trying to juggle this secret desperate lust of theirs while doing this incredibly difficult thing, miles apart, and Ilya is no longer in his familiar milieu, and that shit is HARD, y'all.

Luckily for the boys, the author is very much on their side.

Notes

I could not BELIEVE the uptake on part one of this series, it was one of the nicest experiences ever. I mean a bit scary too but gosh, so many subscribers and kudos and lovely comments?? People from Russia, writing to me in Russian? People whose fics I bloody adore, liking the story? It was superb. Thank you all so so so much. And if you did enjoy that, I really hope you enjoy this instalment too.

It's all pretty much written, and I'm planning on weekly chapters. Please excuse my vagueness over timelines. Don't think about it too hard I beg you. Also, in this universe Shane got drafted first, but Montreal got the first lottery pick, so everything's as expected.

A bazillion thanks and much adoration to my trusty comma-cleaner and clarifier, the incessantly delightful Strangeredlantern. Mwuh! Thank you honey!

Chapter 1: In Which Shane Hollander And Ilya Rozanov Reunite After Way Too Long

ILYA

As soon as he turns off airplane mode, the phone starts pinging. Over and over, right there while they’re waiting at the baggage carousel, and Ilya’s teammates turn to look at him, already pulling mocking faces. They’re always quick to make fun, and Ilya generally enjoys that (when he understands it) and is happy to give as good as he gets. But—

Shit. Fuck. Maybe it’s Hollander cancelling on him. Ilya’s been looking forward to this for weeks and weeks, counting down the fucking days, and if Hollander—

“When did you get so popular, rook?” asks Paulson, their bulky, bearded captain.

“Always,” Ilya mutters distractedly, scrolling through notifications. But none of them are texts from Hollander. Missed call. Missed call. Missed call. All his father. He glances up at the trundling conveyor belt, which is still empty, and nudges Marleau.

“Hey, Marly, you know my bag, right? You can grab?”

“Sure, kid. What’s up?”

Ilya shrugs and heads over to a quieter corner of the concourse. He checks the time. No, his father should still be awake.

“Yes?” The usual sharp bark.

“Papa? It’s Ilya. You called, but we were in the air.”

“In the air?”

“Yes. Just landed in Montreal. Is everything okay?”

“Of course.”

Ilya waits. Nothing more is forthcoming. Rozanovs senior and junior wait each other out for several beats until Ilya caves.

“So… was there a reason you called me six times?”

“Why would I call you six times?”

“I don’t know. That is what I’m asking.”

“You’re not making sense, boy.”

Ilya sighs and squeezes the bone of his nose. It is not the first time something like this has happened, but it is becoming more frequent. “So nothing is wrong? You’re all well?”

“Of course. Are you playing tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Will you win?”

“Probably. If I get some ice time.”

“Why would you not? Mr. Star Player?”

“I’m… it’s my first year, papa. It takes time.”

His father grunts. He makes no acknowledgement of the astonishing fact that Ilya’s gone directly to playing in the NHL in his first year after being drafted, no recognition of what Ilya (and Shane Hollander, for that matter) achieved. Just implied disappointment, served with a subtext of mockery—the usual.

“Okay, well,” says Ilya. “If everything’s okay, I better go get my luggage.”

“Focus,” his father orders, and then hangs up.

Another glorious father-son bonding moment, Ilya thinks sourly. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket and turns at the sound of his name. Marly’s waving one long arm, hailing him; he’s got Ilya’s bag, and the team’s making for the exit. Breaking into a jog, Ilya catches up and grabs his case.

“Thank you.”

“No big. Everything okay?”

“Yes. Just my father.”

“In Russia? Family all good?”

Ilya grunts, and it sounds like his father. He turns it into a throat-clearing instead. “Yes, fine. Just, you know. Wanted to wish us good game.”

“Nice,” says Marly, cheerfully oblivious of Ilya’s bullshittery.

His phone dings again on the bus. It’s Hollander this time. Ilya slouches sideways, turning his screen away from any potentially prying eyes. Everyone knows he and Hollander are friends, sure, but every now and then Hollander sends something that’s just a little too blithely affectionate.

Hey, I saw your plane landed on time. Good flight?

Ilya rolls his eyes. So boring. It makes his stomach all warm.

Was flight, they are all the same

No, not with a nor’easter

Ilya has to think about that one for a bit. “Nor’easter” is a new one on him. As he’s thinking another message pops up.

I meant, if the wind is coming from the north-east, landings can be bumpy here.

Ilya can’t contain the smile. Of course, Hollander second-guessed himself and figured out he’d confused Ilya. Of course he did. Also, of course he knows about prevailing wind directions at Montreal airport. Boring!!

Next to him is Rivers, who was a rookie last year and enjoys having someone below him in the team hierarchy. He kicks Ilya in the ankle. “What are you smirking about, Roz?”

“What is smirking?”

“Like this.” Rivers pulls a vapid and self-satisfied face, an expression that Ilya would be horrified to present to the world. Ugh, no.

“I do not do this.”

“Whatever, man. Who you texting?”

“Nobody. Just Hollander.”

“Oh, right. I heard you guys are friends. He went to Moscow last summer, yeah?”

“Yes, he—”

“Oh, yeah, and now he’s a Metro,” says Rivers, who has the brains of a chicken, but he usually gets there in the end.

“Mmm, yes.”

“You guys gonna catch up?”

Ilya gives a nonchalant shrug. “Probably.”

“Cool, cool. But after we beat them to pulp, he might not wanna hang with you,” says Rivers, doing a smirk of his own.

“Of course we win. But Hollander is very, ummm…” Ilya wracks his brain for the phrase. “Good sport, I think.”

This should be a good thing, a compliment, but somehow Rivers is rolling his eyes. “Fuck, yes. Little Lord Perfect. All you’d get out of him is good game, good game guys, good game.”

“Who, Hollander?” says Butkowski, from the seat behind. Fucking eavesdropper! Ilya stuffs his phone back into his pocket.

“Yeah,” says Rivers. “Golden Boy.”

“He’s a weird little fucker, alright, but he’s a terror on the ice,” says Butts.

"Why's he weird? I thought he seemed pretty together." That’s Connors now. Gospodi, how many of these guys have an opinion about Shane Hollander?

“Got a cousin in Ottawa, played on his junior side," says Rivers. “He’s been stupid good since he was a flea, but yeah… real serious, my cousin said. Like, never went out and messed about, always had his mom in the corner telling him what to do.”

“Everybody messes about,” says Ilya scornfully. “Your cousin maybe does not really know Hollander.”

“Did he mess about in Russia? You got tea, Roz?”

“Tea?”

“Gossip! Stories! Something fucking amusing!”

Ilya has litres of tea—the good, strong, black, Russian kind. “No,” he says.

“Then why the fuck are you calling my cuz a liar? Shit.”

“Not liar. Ignorant person,” says Ilya condescendingly, and Rivers swats him, laughing.

“His mom, though,” Connors says. “That woman runs his life. She’s why he got that Reebok deal. He’s her pretty little money maker.”

There are general noises of disgust, although Ilya thinks it might be nice to have someone taking care of all that shit for you. They’re athletes, they’ve only got a certain window to rake in a lifetime’s worth of money. You gotta go for it while you can. When Ilya first arrived in Boston, he asked his so-called agent, a fat middle-aged ex-D-man from Leningrad, about advertising deals. Ilya reckons he could do pretty good with, like, underwear modelling or whatever. Vodka, maybe. Fyodor laughed so hard he had a choking fit. Fucker.

But surely Mama Hollander is like her boy, oozing with integrity. Surely she’d only be doing what was good for Shane?

Rivers is giggling. “Connie, did you just call Hollander pretty? Aww, that’s beautiful. We should ask my cousin to introduce you. Set you up. Blind date. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and your pretty boy's more into, you know..." He pulls a sympathetic face and waves a hand in Connors' general direction. "... personality.”

“Fuck right off.”

Ilya frowns. Americans are so weird about things. It’s fucking legal here. They have parades about it. Can’t a man use the eyes God put in his head to see the blindingly obvious? “Is true, Hollander is pretty,” he says.

There’s a moment’s silence, and then absolute howls of delight and disdain.

“What?” Ilya shouts, fighting a blush. “He is good looking man. So am I. Marly is a fucking god from Greece. Volga, even you would be pretty if you did not do that—thing—to your hair.”

Rivers (Ilya names him after a new river every time he talks to him and is pleased to see it is catching on) yelps in offence. “Bleach is punk, man.”

“Maybe, but roots are trash,” says Ilya remorselessly. “With haircut, you are probably not bad.”

“What about me? Am I pretty?” Connors demands, making a pouty face.

“Sorry ConCon, you have potential but that moustache belongs on a rat,” says Ilya.

His phone dings in his pocket, barely audible through the laughter. He doesn’t get it out.

He doesn’t get to see Shane before the game. He turns his phone to silent so he can focus. This is their first game against each other in the NHL, and he wants, quite desperately, to win. 

When the teams glide out onto the ice, the Raiders are brutally taunted by the home crowd, which is only to be expected, and will make any subsequent victory all the sweeter. In contrast, the Metros get a standing ovation, with fans screaming. Ilya reckons that’s actually worse; it puts the weight of expectations on your shoulders, which is nothing but a burden that slows you down.

He catches Hollander’s eye. Damn, Shane looks good in his full kit, the proud blue and red. It’s weird, knowing what’s underneath all those layers. Knowing that tonight Ilya will get to see it all, all the lithe muscular glory. Shane’s gaze is steely, cool. Maybe he’s pissed because Ilya turned his phone off. Never mind. Ilya’s confident he knows how to heat that steel and melt it into slag.

Christ, it’s going to be good. They haven’t met up since the draft; they haven’t fucked since Balashikha, which was months ago. And at the draft, it was all just hands and mouths and desperation, partly because Hollander’s parents were in the same hotel, which made Hollander wildly uncomfortable. Ilya gets that. He wouldn’t want to fuck within a two-hundred-metre radius of his father, either. But tonight, surely they’ll be able to go to Hollander’s apartment? They’re friends. Everyone knows that. Nothing weird about that.

He just has to win this game first. 

Montreal’s the first to score, late in the first period, a gritty rebound shot by Metropolit, although he only manages it thanks to a flawless setup from Hollander. The crowd goes fucking insane.

Beside Ilya on the bench, Butts says, “That fucker’s been riding on his name for too fuckin’ long.”

Oh yeah. Metropolit, the Metros. Fun. Must feel like having a team named after you. Must help. Ilya chews on the corner of his mouthguard. Come on, coach, put me in. Put me in.

He gets his chance in the second period. Once, twice, three motherfucking times, he gets a decent scoring opportunity and takes it, and three times their goddamn goaltender denies him. Three! Three!

At the break, everyone’s sympathetic. “Bad luck, Roz, fuck.” “That last one, shit, I was so sure!”

Paulie’s not as kind. “Gotta get that angle sharper, kid. You made it easy for him.”

But he’s done well enough for Coach LeClaire to give him another chance in the third period. The Raiders’ desperation helps them dominate, and towards the end of the period, with the seconds counting down and the crowd howling, Ilya hurtles down the ice and makes a beautiful blind pass through the crease to where Bergeron’s waiting, and Bergers taps it in, sweet as a kiss, to tie the game. 

Ilya’s buffeted by his screaming teammates, slapped and congratulated, and he looks over Connors’ shoulder to where Hollander’s sitting on the bench.

Hollander smiles, nods, and gives Ilya a thumbs-up. Nice. See? Good sport.

Overtime is nerve-wracking. Nobody lets anything through, and it’s down to a shootout. Montreal put Hollander in second, but Saintly stops it clean, and Hollander looks devastated. Ilya’s picked for the Raiders’ third shooter.

This is Ilya’s chance. He silences his mind, presses his chest where his mother’s necklace hangs. He’s gotta do it. He’s gonna do it.

He doesn’t do it. The angle is just too sharp, this time; the puck ricochets off the metal, to approving screams from the crowd.

Ugh. Fuck.

Cammalleri gets it in for Montreal, the goal whispering past Saintly’s fingers with millimetres to spare, and then the crowd really erupts. Ilya sits on the bench, head in hands, pushing his fingers hard against his skull.

“Next time, kid,” says Marly, punching him in the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Just shit luck. You did good.”

The teams file past each other. Ilya’s desperately aware of Hollander’s smiling approach. Just like Rivers said, it’s a heartfelt good game, good game as Hollander makes it up the line.

Their gloved hands grasp. Their eyes meet, fierce and joyful. 

“Bad luck there. Really good game,” says Hollander.

Ilya has a brief, wild vision of grabbing him, pressing a kiss to his sweaty cheek, or his plump mouth.

He does neither, of course. “Not as good as yours,” he teases.

“No,” says Hollander, turning his head as he skates away, smiling and smiling.

SHANE

Pacing around the lounge, Shane rubs his thumb over the button of his phone.

He’s not going to text again. He’s not. Rozanov’s already ignored, what, five messages? Six?

Before he can stop himself, he’s punching in his passcode to check.

I meant, if the wind is coming from the north-east, landings can be bumpy here. He sent that this afternoon, and didn’t get a reply. But that was okay. Ilya was travelling, right?

Then, later:

Hope you can still come by after the game

Nothing in reply.

Have you still got the address

Nothing. And later still:

Good luck with the game, you’re gonna need it

Nothing. And after the game:

I’m home, come round any time

But that was two hours ago. Shane got home, put the lights on, had another (more thorough) shower, and put on soft dark sweatpants (no underwear, which makes him feel… something) and a fresh white t-shirt; he turned on the bedside lights, checked the vodka in the freezer, had a beer to calm his nerves, ate a salad, got out some garlic bread that he can stick in the oven if Ilya’s hungry, and watched a bit of the playback. But then he got a boner watching Ilya’s relentless attacks on goal, so he turned it off, started pacing, and now here he is, checking his messages again.

“Oh my god, you’re so pathetic,” he mutters to himself, and then jerks as his phone dings, at the same time as the intercom by the door buzzes. He checks the message.

am in lobby, man will not let me in elevator

Shane snorts. Robert takes his role as doorman very seriously.  He starts typing, then thinks better of it since Ilya’s left him on read for so long; he deletes what he's started and presses the intercom button. 

“Mr. Hollander? A Mr. Rozanov is asking to come up.”

“It’s fine, Robert, he’s, um, a hockey friend. I met him in Russia. We both play hockey. He’s Russian. We’re friends.”

God, it’s as if he says the word "friend" often enough that it’ll magically come true. And on top of that embarrassing gabbling, he realises that Ilya probably saw dots when he was typing. Shit. So much for playing it cool. 

By the time Ilya’s knuckles rap on his door (can’t he see the bell?) Shane’s guts are in an unpleasant double twist of self-flagellation and irritation about Ilya’s phone silence all day.

And then he opens the door, and…

… and Ilya.

Shane’s irritation melts away. Ilya’s here; Ilya, and his small, devilish half-smile. His glinting eyes, and the smell of him, cologne over cigarettes and, and… just Ilya. Curls are escaping from underneath his toque; it’s cold out, and the sleety drizzle has left constellations of tiny silver drops all over him. Shane stares at his face, at the mole on his cheek, the unshaven fuzz on his chin and lip, the tempting curve of his mouth, the width of his shoulders, the—

“Hollander? You will let me in, or…?”

“Oh, yeah, sure, sorry, I…”

Shane backs away, gesturing to Ilya to enter. Get a fucking grip, he tells himself, clenching a fist until his nails bring four flares of pain to his palm.

“Come in,” he says, and then continues standing there like an idiot while Ilya takes off his shoes, shrugs off his coat and toque, tosses them onto the sofa, and commences prowling around the lounge, observing, cataloguing, the way he does. He’s got new clothes, super dark jeans that fit him disgustingly well, and a teal t-shirt that looks like the sort that costs nearly as much as a good pair of sneakers.

“I thinked you would have nice view, but…” says Ilya, gesturing mockingly at the closed curtains.

“Thought, not thinked. You lose a lot of heat through glass,” says Shane, who pulled every curtain and blind in the apartment specifically to ensure that the world would not accidentally see any of the things he is hoping will happen tonight.

Ilya deposits himself in the middle of the couch, his thighs spread wide, and nods at Shane. “Mmm, yes,” he says. “Yes, that is why you closed them.”

“Why else would—”

“Take off your clothes,” says Ilya, his gaze suddenly and utterly predatory.

Something scalding washes over Shane’s skin, and his heart rate kicks up. “Don’t you want to, um,” he says, gesturing towards the bedroom.

“No. Here. Now. I wait so long. Too long.”

“I waited too, so why don’t—”

“Shane. Shut up. Take off your clothes. Please.” Ilya rubs the heel of his hand over the bulge at his crotch, and Shane can see he’s half hard already. “Fucking please.”

Ilya has a way of doing this that’s irresistible—being demanding and bossy, yet managing to make Shane feel all his desire at the same time. He makes Shane want to obey; he makes obedience feel powerful. Like a gift, a treasure, precious. Shane smiles, his heart thumping already, and comes closer, until he’s only separated from Ilya by the glass-topped coffee table.

Slowly, very slowly, he slides his palm up his body, touching himself as he pushes his shirt up. Further and further, over his chest, and blue eyes follow every inch of the movement; Shane’s smallest fingertip shivers over his nipple, and Ilya twitches.

“Nice, Hollander. You give me… show?”

“You want that?”

“Mmm,” says Ilya, unbuckling his belt. Shane’s pulse goes wild. It takes everything he’s got to stay here on his side of the table.

He loves the idea of playing a role for Ilya. Entertaining Ilya. There’s an insane level of freedom that comes from knowing how much Ilya likes his body, likes touching him, likes his mouth, likes grinding against him and shoving into him. They’re both still fully dressed, and Shane’s erection is already like stone in his pants, tenting obscenely. Christ, how has he waited this long?

He licks his lip. Maybe he should’ve put on some music. Do you need music to strip for someone? He doesn’t listen to much music. He’d choose something stupid. No. No music. Just the rhythm of Ilya’s breath, getting deeper, getting louder. He grips the back of his shirt with both hands and slowly pulls it over his head, pausing while he’s blinded by it, while he’s exposed, arms lifted.

Gospodi, Ilya breathes. Fuck, you look good. Shane’s pretty sure he looks weird, stuck here in his shirt with his sweatpants distended, but if Ilya likes it, that’s all good with him.

“Is so hard to just watch,” Ilya mutters. “But is so fucking good.”

By the time Shane pulls his shirt all the way off, Ilya’s got a hand in his open jeans, and Shane can see the deep red tip of his cock, and Ilya’s fist around it. Ilya’s expression is haunted, delighted. It’s so good. It turns Shane right back into the sex freak he’d been in Balashikha, the guy he’d once been worried he might leave there in Russia. He turns his back on Ilya and pushes his sweats down low on his hips, low enough to expose the first swell of his ass and those back dimples Ilya couldn’t stop stroking.

“Fuck, Hollander,” says Ilya, half breathless. “More. Give me more.”

It’s as heady as scoring a goal, and as glorious. Shane slides a hand down inside his sweats, groping his own ass cheek, and Ilya sighs, groans.

“Fucking tease. Show me. Show me.”

Red-faced, thrilled, Shane hooks his thumbs into his waistband and slowly pushes his sweats down, until they drop to the floor. He looks back over his shoulder; Ilya’s biting his bottom lip, his cheeks flushed.

“Okay?” says Shane.

“Come here. Come here, come here!” Ilya pushes the coffee table away with one socked foot, making room, and motions Shane to stand between his spread knees. Shane lets himself be manhandled, arranged until his cock is pointing straight at Ilya’s hungry face, and can’t hold back a grin. Free. He feels so goddamn free with Ilya Rozanov!

“Hello,” says Ilya, basically to Shane’s cock. “You are happy to see me, yes?”

“Obviously,” says Shane.

Ilya runs a slow, taunting fingertip down the centre of Shane’s body, but veers off sideways before he gets to his cock, tracing a line over Shane’s hip and back around behind, following the cleft of his butt.

“I would like to suck your cock,” says Ilya, thoughtfully, “but also… I would really, really like to eat your ass.” And then he grabs Shane by the hips, turns him around, and says, “Hands on the table, Hollander.”

Holy shit. Shane’s face burns; he can’t stop panting, but he does it. He bends forward, straight-legged, and leans on the glass. Ilya knocks at the insides of Shane’s knees, widening his stance, exposing him even more, and leans in so close that Shane can feel the heat of his face. 

Fingers trace gently over the sides of his buttocks, where Shane knows he’s got pale marks, lines that bloomed the year when he grew so suddenly and put on muscle so fast that his skin couldn’t keep up.

“Pretty,” Ilya murmurs, and this is the first moment Shane has ever thought so. But yeah. They demarcate Shane-the-boy’s ending, and Shane-the-man’s entrance into the world. So he shivers, and likes it, when Ilya’s fingertips trace the shallow corrugations, butterfly-light.

And then, oh then; not light at all, Ilya’s palms press into the meat of Shane’s buttocks and spread them. Shane’s cock twitches, shudders of pleasure and shamed delight pulsing through him. It’s so unbelievable. How can he—Shane Hollander, a good, polite Canadian boy who’s supposed to be the best of his generation—be bent naked in front of another player, trembling with anticipation and desire to feel the touch of tongue on his asshole? It’s barely conceivable.

But he is. He is, and when Ilya’s warm, wet, pointed tongue touches him he keens, a high whining desperate sound, and all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Touch me. Touch me while you do that, please, please Ilya?”

Ilya gives him maybe a quarter of what he wants, tracing circles over Shane’s cock head, slick with leak, while his tongue circles the same. Shane is panting, his vision blurring. It’s tantalising, delicious, so much and not nearly enough. He wants more, so much more but the lube is in the bedroom because isn’t that where you have sex? Not right here on the couch?

“Fuck, please, more,” he grinds out, and Ilya’s tongue pushes hard against him, slips inside. Ilya’s face is slightly rough, and the sensation of his stubble on tender skin is like fireworks. Shane honestly feels he might faint. “Fingers,” he begs, because lube or no lube, fuck, he just has to—

—but Ilya’s rummaging one-handed in the pocket of his discarded coat. Shane hears the click of a lid and a moment later the tongue is replaced by the shocking pressure of a slicked finger, pressing fearlessly inside him, pushing out a gasp that turns into a moan when Ilya makes straight for his prostate. He works Shane open, lavishes wet kisses on his spine, and plays gently with Shane’s cock while he’s doing it until Shane is in heaven.

“Come, turn,” Ilya demands, and his hands withdraw, twisting Shane by the hips; he turns, panting, and Ilya slumps low on the couch, lifting his hips as he pushes his jeans and briefs down to his thighs. Shane climbs up, straddling him, as Ilya peels open a condom and rolls it down. Shane’s mouth is full of greedy saliva; he has a brief, wild flash of what it would look like if he just spat that straight down onto Ilya’s dick, but before he has time to do such a savage thing, Ilya squirts on a heap of lube and is holding his cock upright, urging Shane forward, and Shane doesn’t need asking twice. One hand on the back of the sofa for balance, he sinks down.

Jesus, it’s a stretch. He pants, open-mouthed, and Ilya holds him by the hips, taking weight, staring at Shane with questioning eyes, and Shane nods frantically.

“No, yeah, I’m good, it’s good, it’s—”

“Too much?”

“No, fuck no,” Shane yelps, and takes more. More, until Ilya’s fully there, fully inside Shane where he should always be, and Ilya’s face transforms from concern to wonder, to blatant lust, and it’s beautiful. They hold there for a long, timeless moment, staring at each other. 

Connection. Shane never feels this kind of connection. Eye contact is so hard, sometimes. But never with Ilya.

“Missed you,” Shane says.

“Missed my dick,” says Ilya, with a wink, and that might only be part of it, but it’s fucking true.

Shane rides that dick until his thighs are shaking, the pair of them panting and moaning and drawing it out, slowing when it’s coming too close, because it’s too delicious for words. There’s only so long they can last, though, after such a long wait, and soon the rhythm’s speeding, faster and deeper and harder and so—fucking—good and Ilya’s panting out these desperate little noises, huh huh huh fuck Hollander fuck!

His face contorts, teeth bared, and his hips judder upwards, his hand on Shane’s cock suddenly slack as he comes. Shane can feel the pulse of him in the tender stretch of his asshole, and it’s glorious. He’s so close himself, oh so so close, and the moment Ilya’s done, he kneels upright, gasping at the sensation of the cock leaving his body. Like a mindreader, Ilya parts his lips and stares up at Shane with fuck-drunk eyes as Shane feeds his cock into Ilya’s mouth, shoves in deep, and comes like thunder.

Afterwards, jelly-legged, Shane lets Ilya lean him against the shower wall and lather him with soap, cleaning him. That’s when they kiss, finally—which Shane’s been craving just as much as the fucking, if he’s honest. That’s when he gets to press his entire body against Ilya’s, skin on skin, feeling his muscles and the hard bone beneath. That’s when his heart relaxes.

He soaps his hands and runs them down Ilya’s spine, holding him close. Rubs his palms over the slippery swell of Ilya’s perfect ass, which is like two basketballs and has no stretch marks at all. A memory from Russia, a fleeting thought, ignites in his languorous mind.

“Hey. D’you ever… I mean, maybe some time… do you want me to…? And you could, unh…?”

Ilya lifts his mouth from Shane’s neck for long enough to say, “Do you speak English? You make no sense.”

Shane snorts.

“You should get tutor. I know very good English tutor.”

“Shut up. I meant, like, do you ever want to, you know, switch? Trade?”

“Do I want to be fucked?”

“Yeah.”

Ilya shrugs. “Is what you want?”

Taking a minute to consider this, Shane runs a finger up Ilya’s soapy ass-crack. “I mean… I really like it this way. But maybe you’d really like it too. It’s pretty fucking spectacular.”

“Yes,” says Ilya, grinding his hips against Shane in a way that leaves them both half hard again. He takes Shane’s earlobe between his teeth, biting gently. “For me too. Spec-tac-ular this way. But if… if you want try, I can.”

“No, it’s not that I want to, I just thought maybe you’d want to.”

“You don’t want to? You don’t want to fuck this spec-tac-ular ass?” says Ilya, rearing back in mock outrage and then turning round in the too-small shower and slapping his own ass-cheeks in demonstration. They are pink from the hot water and quiver when he slaps them in a way that does something to Shane’s guts. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between them, nudging his semi-erection against the flesh in question. It’s warm and solid and yeah, spectacular.

“Has anyone?” Shane asks, diverting away from his own desires, or lack thereof.

Broad shoulders flex and rise in a shrug. “No,” says Ilya.

“Oh.” Shane presses a kiss to the nape of Ilya’s neck, where rivulets of water run down from his flattened curls. “Well, you know. If you ever want to lose your virginity, let me know.”

“You are calling me virgin? Fucking hypocrite,” says Ilya cheerfully.

He twists around and pulls Shane back into another wet, avid, delicious kiss; and it’s not till much later, when he’s gone, that Shane realises he never really answered the question.

Chapter 2: In Which North America Disappoints Ilya Rozanov

Chapter Notes

Recap: Shane and Ilya met in Russia the summer before their rookie year, when Shane was tutoring English at a summer hockey camp. They fell hard and came into the draft with full intentions of continuing to hook up at every opportunity.

Ilya's in America now, and the hockey world knows they're friends, not rivals. Last chapter their teams played in Montreal, and even though the Raiders lost Ilya had a spectacular night.

Many thanks to everyone who subscribed and kudos'ed and commented on the first chapter, so delighted so many of you are up for more of this series!

And the most thanks to my very dear Strangeredlantern who removes the ten squillion times I say "just" which is obviously a major lexical quirk of mine, and does it on very short notice, besides. Spectacular human!

ILYA

Ilya skulks into the hotel, quick and quiet, in the hope that no one will notice what time he's returning. It's going to be obvious he missed curfew, of course—Cap doesn't let his younger players get away with that shit, and he's bound to say something, although at least they haven't got a game tomorrow—but it's gotten pretty damn late at this point. Well, pretty damn early.

It had been so hard to leave, though. Somehow in the busy months since they last met in person, Shane's put on a couple of pounds of incredibly grabbable muscle and gotten even prettier and more insatiable than he was over summer, which Ilya would probably have said was impossible. That fuck was sensational, and then in the shower Ilya had avoided the (hard to answer) question of whether or not he wanted to bottom for Shane by blowing him, and then they'd lain around on Shane's bed just kissing and talking and teasing each other about their respective failures in yesterday's game; and even after coming twice and having a rosy rawness around his mouth from all Ilya's scratchy kisses, Shane had been grinding semi-hard against him when they said goodbye at his door. Leaving was torture.

It's stupid that Ilya has to sneak back here. It's stupid that they can't just stay wherever they want and meet up at the airport the next day. What are they, children?

His hotel room lock opens with a dull clunk and an unnecessary beep. Fuck. He sneaks in as quietly as he can, closing the bathroom door with the care of a cat-burglar before stripping down to his underwear and creeping back out to climb silently into bed.

He thinks he's gotten away with it, until there's a sudden dull blur of motion and a pillow hits him in the head.

"What fuckin' time do you call this, rookie?" says Rivers, his voice hoarse with sleep.

"Sorry, Lena, my love. Did not mean to wake you. Shhhh, sleepy time now."

Rivers' watch glows in the dark above his bed. "Three a.m., fucker. Alarm's going at six."

"Then stop talking. And throwing things."

"Where were you? You snuck out of the bar, nobody knew where you'd gone."

"You know where I was going. Told you on bus. Calm down, mamochka."

"Can't believe you ditched your boys for Hollander. Where did you go?"

"Don't know the name of the place," says Ilya, who's absolutely not going to admit he was at Shane's home until this hour; he's not stupid.

"Did you score then, is that where you've been? Details, kid. Gimme."

"Nyet, no score."

"Not surprised. Hollander would be a useless wingman."

"Yes," says Ilya, which isn't very kind of him but is also probably true.

"So you just hung with Shane Hollander in a club until three in the morning?"

"Blyat, go to sleep. I am tired."

"Me too, because my annoying Russian rookie roomie just woke me up at stupid o'clock after hanging out with a weird Canadian kid all night."

Ilya's hackles are rising, which is a metaphor, but it feels physical, his shoulders hunching and his jaw tightening. "He is not weird."

"Not what my cousin says."

"Does your cousin play hockey?"

"Not any more, why?"

"Too bad, was hoping for opportunity to meet him, see what…" (Ilya struggles to find suitable English words to express the concept of a congenital moron, and fails.) "See what idiot looks like." He clamps the thrown pillow over his head and mutters, "Good night, I sleep now."

Rivers says something else, but the pillow muffles it, and next thing Ilya knows, the alarm's going.

The ribbing doesn't really start until they're in the gate lounge. The flight's delayed nearly three-quarters of an hour, and the place is full, the Raiders jammed together in one corner, yawning and bitching and moaning. Ilya's got his cap tilted down over his face, head back and arms crossed, trying to catch up on some of that lost sleep, but apparently his captain has other ideas.

“Yo, Rozanov, Jaakola!” Paulie says loudly.

"Yes, Cap?" says Jaakola, whose Finnish accent is so thick that even Ilya can hear it.

"Both of you missed curfew last night. Fuckin' do better. You're playing in the big leagues now, no time for bullshit, you hear me?"

"Yes, but I was only ten minutes late," says Jaakola, who probably knows he's in trouble because Paulie didn't call him Coke, his habitual team name, or even Cocakola, its formal version. "And I would've been on time, only there was a queue for cabs, and I let some girls take the first one." Coke is generally pretty law-abiding, not to mention religiously gentlemanly, so Ilya believes him.

"Ten minutes is ten fuckin' minutes. Late is late. You've got a fuckin' watch, use it."

"Yeah. Sorry, Cap."

Something hits Ilya in the chest. He sits up; a balled up Dunkin' Donuts bag. Why do his teammates keep throwing things at him? Paulie is glaring in his direction.

"When did you get in, Roz?"

"Mmm, yes, I was a little late. Sorry," says Ilya. "Will do better next time."

"How late?"

Like sharks sensing blood in the water, the rest of the team's gone quiet now, looking their way.

"I don't know. Not too late."

He glances at Rivers. This is a mistake. Now everyone is looking at Rivers.

"What time did he get in, Mississippi?" Paulie demands.

Rivers shrugs, filling Ilya's heart with brotherly love. "Dunno, I didn't wake up."

Paulie rolls his eyes, sensing a losing battle. "Listen, baby idiots. There's a reason we have curfews. It's fuckin' hard on the body, what we do. And we're in the goddamn public eye, which is judgmental to the extreme. So when we're travelling, for our very well-paying jobs, we behave like adults, not over-excited teenagers out on the town for the first time, okay?"

"I did not!" Coke protests.

Rivers does Ilya yet another solid, or so it seems at first. "Roz didn't either, Cap. He was hanging with Shane Hollander."

"The fuck?" says Butts, the beefy first-line centre whose job Ilya fully intends to take sooner rather than later. "Fraternising with the enemy?"

"Is not enemy," says Ilya. "I know him from Russia."

"Yah, yah, we all know. Feel-good story of last year's draft. Rivals to friends, international cooperation, blah blah blah," says Paulie. "Doesn't mean you can break curfew, capeesh?"

"Capeesh? What is capeesh?"

"Do. You. Under. Stand?"

"Yes," says Ilya sullenly.

Connors must feel sorry for him. "Come on, Cap. It's only Hollander. It's not like Roz can get up to much with Mr Straight-Laced."

"Don't know, do I?" says Paulie. "Since he was out past curfew. Fuck knows what you freaks get up to after midnight."

There's general laughter, and Rivers says, "True, but not Hollander. My cousin says—"

Ilya has started to hate this cousin. Seriously, literally. Hate.

"Who the fuck's your cousin?" asks Butts.

"He used to play with Hollander in juniors, I told you guys this."

"Like I'm memorising your extended family, Rio Grande."

"Can you guys stop fucking calling me that river shit?"

"No," declare several members of the team, including Ilya.

"I've got too many saved up to waste them," says Butts.

"Yeah, I fuckin' googled for this bit, so try to appreciate my efforts, Euphrates," Marly puts in.

Euphrates! That's a good one. Ilya is impressed. "Is learning opportunity for whole team now," he says sagely.

"Well first, fuck you all very much, and second, my cousin says Hollander is, like, super straight edge. Never goes out or drinks or whatever. So Roz was probably, I dunno, playing Yahtzee till three."

"Three?" yells Paulie.

"Thanks," Ilya snaps, glaring at Rivers, all brotherly feeling lost.

"What? Isn't that better than being out on the piss?"

"Where the fuck were you until three?" Paulie demands, and Ilya's suddenly scrambling to remember what he'd implied to Rivers last night.

"Some club," he says, waving a vague hand.

"Did you pull?" says Marly, holding out the possibility like potential redemption. He's a good dude.

"No," says Ilya, because he already told Rivers he didn't. "Just catching up."

"In a club," says Butts.

"Yes."

"With the super loud music and all the girls. The perfect place for conversation."

"Yes, we are not all as deaf as you, old man."

"Call me crazy," says Connors, narrowing his eyes, "but I feel like you're hiding something, Rozzy."

"Bullshit," says Ilya, pulling his cap back down.

There's general grumbling as another flight is called for boarding, and it's still not theirs.

Rivers says, "Anyway, I don't think Roz can get up to much hanging out with ol' Hollander. Josh reckons he's probably ace."

Ilya is trying to decode this word when Butts helpfully says, "What the fuck is ace?" (There is a certain overlap in ignorance between non-native speakers and the elderly.)

"Asexual, you ignoramus," says Rivers. "Like, just not interested."

A chorus of dismay. "Fuck off," says Butts. "Everyone's interested in somebody."

"Nah, truly. Some people just, you know, don't give a shit."

"No fuckin' way."

Rivers says, "Well, I'm just telling you what Josh said. But I feel you, Buttsy. I too call bullshit, because Hollander's way too successful and hot, even if he's weird."

"Sexuality doesn't correlate to income or appearance, dude," says Connors, demonstrating an unexpected level of sophistication which is entirely wasted on the rest of the team.

"Nah, if anything, he's a fag," says Butts. "Too pretty, like Roz said."

"Roz said what?" demands Saintly, who wasn't sitting close to them on the bus yesterday.

"Roz says Hollander's pretty."

Ilya yells over the whoops and jeers, "Yes, so did Connors yesterday, and Rivers just said he is hot, are you all fucking deaf? Blind?"

"Oooooh boy, Con and Roz are both after Hollander's ass—the game is ON," says Butts, and the team roars with laughter and mockery. Jaakola's got actual tears in his eyes, he's laughing so hard.

"I'll put a hundy on Roz," said Saintly. "Got that European thing going on."

"Nah, man, Con's moustache is pure YMCA," says Carmichael. "Hundy on the man with the taint-tickler."

Connors starts to argue the heterosexual nature of his facial hair. Ilya says nothing. His mouth is dry, his skin hot.

It's legal here. It's fucking legal. There are parades.

But clearly it's not… okay. It's the same shit, on a different goddamn continent.

"Fucking babies," he says haughtily, and pulls his cap back down over his burning face.

Marleau is Ilya's favourite teammate to go out with. He's got this cheeky, solid, reliable guy thing going on, plus he looks about forty, so Ilya pretty much never gets carded when they're together. It's crazy that he can't drink in America, which drives him insane. He can't even get a piss-weak beer that any kid can buy in a corner gastronom in Russia. Madness. When you make a rule so ridiculous, of course everybody breaks it. He had a fake ID within a month of arrival, but to be honest, when he's with the team and in Boston nobody asks. Don't ask, don't tell. It's a thing here in America—a lot of smiling, deliberate ignorance.

Anyway, Marly is a great wingman. The two of them can pull so, so easily. They're like a mixed bag. Do you want tall, dark and handsome? Marly's your guy. Do you want nearly as tall, blondish, exotic, and just as (okay, probably more) handsome? Hello, meet Ilya Rozanov. They both love to dance, they both have a great line in bullshit. Marly laughs all the time. Ilya plays it straight and Slavic. Girls love them.

Which is great, because the fact is, no matter what's going on between Ilya and Hollander, it's only ever going to be a few meetups a year, and that's just… insufficient. When they play, they can meet, and they can fuck. But that's all; to Ilya's intense disappointment, that's all. America says they can't be more. America will look at them and revel in its smiling, deliberate ignorance. What good friends! How charming!

But Ilya has finally realised that if they knew the truth, there would be no charm. There would be mockery and loathing and disgrace. No better than back home.

It fucking sucks. But Ilya Rozanov, Russian rookie with a visa that's his because of a job that requires obedience to the norms, can't change that.

Tonight they're out with Rivers, who holds a mysterious allure for women that Ilya doesn't understand at all. What sort of woman would put up with a dye job that bad? But Rivers has a sort of idiot joie de vivre, a shameless frat boy aesthetic, that the women here seem to go for. He's already retired to a dark corner with some girl who's so enthusiastic that at this rate she's going to give Rivers what he wants before they even leave this fucking club.

A group of four girls have attached themselves appreciatively to Marly and Ilya. One of them is drawing Ilya's drunken attention like a moth to a flame. Dark hair, dark eyes, a perfectly straight nose, some vaguely Asian mixed heritage that makes her a blend of everything and nothing. He dances closer to her, turns her, puts his hands on her waist, and she's got her hands in the air, grinding against him.

The move takes him straight back to Moscow. Hollander. That sinfully enticing shirt.

A deflated blow-up bed. A whispered confession. A kiss, chaste and taboo and wonderful.

Oh, god, Ilya wants him. So much. So bad. 

But their situation, their agreement, is clear. Hollander said, that first day Ilya arrived in Montreal, I don't care if there are other people. So this isn't, like, unethical. It's just living life, right?

The girl he's dancing with peers back over her shoulder, a sly smile. In profile, she's so much like Hollander it's like being stabbed. Not her, Ilya's heart howls. Not her. 

Ilya beckons her friend to dance with them; a thin girl, honey blonde, conventionally pretty. She comes willingly, something triumphant in the way she wraps her arm around Ilya's neck, claiming him.

He does not like her as much, but sure, she's hot. And she's not Hollander. And he's allowed.

He kisses her.

Her tongue's in his mouth instantly, her body pressed against his. The dark-haired girl slips away like a disappointed eel.

Lights flash, strobe, camera, or both. The music pounds. Marly slaps him on the back, laughing loud enough to hear over the thumping bass.

Ilya makes out with her on the dance floor until they're flirting with public indecency, then takes her home and fucks her. She is vapid, uninspiring, performing like a cam girl, with no honesty behind her eyes. He makes her come—or pretend to come, who knows—twice and then orders her a cab.

When she's gone, he goes to bed and thinks of Hollander. Of his speed and strength on the ice. Of his eyes, their subterranean blackness and the bright glimmer of desperate tears and the scattered constellations of freckles on the cheekbones beneath. Of the delicate lacework of lines on his buttocks. Of his pretty cock in Ilya's mouth and the sounds he makes as he spurts, the way he twitches and shudders.

He's already forgotten her name, and he's ashamed of himself.

His phone dings the next morning. FUCKIN LEGEND!!! says the text from Rivers. It might be about Ilya's catch last night, or it might be shameless self-promotion about Rivers' luck with that over-enthusiastic girl in the corner, but either way, Ilya doesn't want to know. He texts back a thumbs up and goes for a run.

SHANE

A couple of quiet days have given Shane the empty headspace he needs, sometimes, to feel like himself again. Apart from a call with his dad one evening to confirm how to change a washer in the bathroom tap that's been dripping—no need for a plumber, his dad confirmed, and talked him through the disassembly and reassembly, and it's worked perfectly ever since—he's barely talked to anyone for two days. Oh, there were some texts from Pike, his new teammate who's friendly as a puppy and keeps wanting Shane to meet his babies. There are two of them, so it's great, you get to hold one each! he assured Shane, as if that's in some way a desirable activity, but Shane turned the washer into A Plumbing Situation and weaselled out of a visit.

And there were a couple of texts from Ilya. But Shane's trying really hard to play it relatively cool on that front. 

After their meetup a few weeks back, he'd felt so happy. Too happy. Sick with it, idiotic with it, like Ilya Rozanov's some kind of drug. Which was delicious, but too delicious, like a cream-filled beignet that you know is bad for you. Feeling that happy about being fucked in the ass by a Russian fellow rookie is definitely a problem, and trying to hide that happiness away is a problem too, but he hasn't got much choice about that.

He knows perfectly well—they've agreed—that it's not an option for other people to know about it. And it's not like he's admitted to anyone, even his parents, that he might be…

He doesn't like to think the word clearly, even in the cold private silence of his own mind, but it forces itself out through the cracks in his control, like water suddenly exploding through a tiny crack in a dam wall.

Gay.

He hasn't admitted to anyone, even his parents, that he might be gay.

There's no room for that in his life. His sport. His world. So why waste time over an impossible thing? No. He's got more control than that. Sure, yes, obviously, he really likes being fucked by Ilya Rozanov, but that uncomfortable truth just has to stay in a well-sealed box and only be taken out on those nights when their teams face each other on the ice. Just an occasional treat. And the rest of the time, he can't go wandering about in a starry-eyed daze, like a love-poisoned idiot.

Which is why Shane takes his time replying to Ilya's texts and keeps it short. He has to. It's fucking self-preservation at this point.

So he doesn't write back to Ilya's text mocking Dallas's mortifying defeat at the hands of the New York Admirals. Hunter did good but big risk, old bones very fragile, wrote Ilya, who likes to taunt all the well-established players for being old men but has a particularly bizarre and inexplicable fixation on Scott Hunter's age. Shane snorts in bemused amusement, stuffs his phone into his pocket, and heads in to practice.

He's one of the first to arrive, but the locker room fills up quickly. The Metros take practice seriously, and punctuality is expected, which is nice. There's a quick debrief on their last game in Toronto, including some stern words from Coach Theriault about letting themselves be taunted into doing something stupid. (Here he glares at Sixsmith, who got a five-minute penalty after slashing at Toronto's Kent.)

"Yeah, sorry coach, but honest to fuckin' God, that guy asks for it."

"Come on, Six," says Theriault patiently, rubbing his face. "You know he does it on purpose. You know you gave him exactly what he wanted."

"Yeah, I know. I know. But for fuck's sake, the shit that comes out of that guy's mouth is just foul."

"What did he say?" asks Boiziau.

"Nothing I'm gonna repeat."

"Aww, come on! If we know what sort of shit he says, next time we won't react like you did."

"Yeah," says Pike, and Shane nods too, because that makes sense. He's used to most of the taunts that are thrown on the ice, but it sounds like this was particularly bad.

"Nah, seriously. Just freaky delusional sex stuff."

"Like what?"

Sixsmith shakes his head, disgusted. "You really wanna know, rookie?"

Shane nods again.

"Okay. Well, I got pissed when he looked up into the crowd and asked if my wife brought her strap to Toronto with her, ‘cos if not, he could recommend a good sex shop that opens late."

After a momentary silence, there's a hilarious sound of multiple men suppressing laughter, a sound that's so funny that suddenly and simultaneously they all lose control, even Shane.

"Come on, Six, that's kinda funny," says Metropolit.

"Fuckin' hilarious," says Sixsmith sourly. He's a big guy with a reprehensible mullet, who drives a massive Sequoia and obviously doesn't appreciate the implication that he'd ever do such a deviant thing as let his wife put something up his butt.

Of course. No hockey player would do that. Would want that.

Right?

As usual, conditioning with the team and a good, solid practice help to refocus Shane's anxieties. He's doing well; he knows. Coach is happy with his performance, giving him decent ice time, and he's managing to kind of slot into the team socially. Kind of.

When Shane comes out of the shower, Boiziau's in the centre of a small knot of laughing, half-naked guys. They're all leaning in to look at something on his phone. Shane's not usually interested in the stupid stuff they share, so he ignores it and goes to his locker, drying himself perfunctorily and pulling on his briefs. The jersey fabric sticks a little to his still-damp skin, and he wriggles and plucks at it, trying to get it to sit right.

"Hey, Hollander," says Boiziau. He says Shane's name with a strange inflexion that isn't really like the way Ilya says it, but isn't the way everyone else says it either, so it always catches Shane's ear. "You know this guy, right? Rozanov?"

Are they all looking at Ilya?

"For sure," says Shane. "What's—is he okay?" Because nothing does the rounds quicker than a bit of extreme violence. Last year, there was that guy who fell wrong and snapped his leg, and it was everywhere.

But Shane's question elicits more laughter. Boiziau strolls over, nonchalant in his towel, phone extended.

"More than okay," he says. "He's a fucking legend."

Shane takes the phone, holds it away a little bit. He might be getting a bit short-sighted; he should get his eyes checked. There's a video playing, a tinny duzh-duzh-duzh coming from the phone's small speaker. It's dark, and bodies are close together, moving under flashing lights.

"There," says Boiziau, pointing to the left of the screen.

Ilya. It's Ilya, dancing. Dancing with an Asian-looking girl, Shane sees. He holds himself very still, very controlled, focusing on his breath. She turns and is obviously grinding back against Ilya, reaching up behind her head and running her hand through his curls.

"So he's dancing with someone," Shane manages to say. "So what?"

"No, no, wait, watch!"

On screen, the tiny Ilya looks around. Sees a blonde girl and reaches for her, beckoning. She comes willingly, and for a moment, both girls are dancing with him, laughing up at him, and then he moves away from the first girl and leans right down and kisses the second.

Shane's forgotten how to breathe.

The Asian girl's face falls. She pulls an angry face and flips Ilya the bird before disappearing back into the crowd. Ilya's hand is splayed wide on the second girl's bare back, and they're kissing, like… like he kisses Shane.

"So what?" he says again, his voice a cold croak.

"He's such a fuck-boy," says Boiziau admiringly. 

"It's the accent," says Dufresne, who's got a pretty good one of his own when he wants to. "American women, they love an accent."

"Sure, but kid's got moves," says Metropolit, peering over Shane's shoulder.

"Honestly, he played it wrong," says someone else. Shane doesn't even know who. He can't look away from the screen, where the video's looped and the pretty Asian girl is back in Ilya's arms, leaning into him, smiling, inviting. "If he played it nicer, he could've had both."

Someone whoops. "Threesome, baby, nothing like it."

"Guy's got game," says Pike. "I gotta give him that. I mean, I'm super glad I don't have to do that shit any more, but still."

"For sure," says Shane. He forms his mouth into a grin. It hurts, desperately. He probably looks rabid, insane. He shoves the phone at Boiziau and turns back to his locker.

Like an automaton, he dresses. Talk swirls around him; he doesn't hear any of it. "Bye," he says woodenly, on his way out. "See you tomorrow, guys."

He drives home in silence.

He gets his pre-packaged dinner out of the fridge. He feels like he's going to vomit, but he forces it down. He heads out for a run and keeps going for an hour and a half, until his legs feel like jelly.

He showers again. It feels like a million years since Ilya was in this shower with him. Kissing him, like he kissed that girl.

He goes to bed. Lies there, berating himself.

This is why. This is why he shouldn't have let himself be so happy. They both knew this wasn't, like, a real option. They said, from the start—he said—he didn't care if there were other people. He told Ilya he could do that.

So he's got no right to feel this way. Fucking none at all.

He's an idiot, and this pain is one hundred percent self-inflicted.

Fuck.

Chapter 3: In Which an Attempted Exorcism Creates Even More Demons

Chapter Notes

Recap: After their summer fling at the English language intensive hockey camp in Moscow, Shane and Ilya are now in America and Canada, playing for the NHL and stealing time together when they can. Feelings are intense, and it's been very disappointing to Ilya, in particular, to realise that the pressures and attitudes here in the States mirror a lot of those that are increasing back home. He's thrown himself into a party lifestyle, trying to fill the gaping chasm with girls, but it's not working. And Shane's seen evidence of it, and knows he has to distance himself if he's going to preserve his sanity. End of last chapter, boy was sad. Wah! We cannot leave him so miserable!

Many appreciative hugs to my dear Strangeredlantern who is beta reading at the speed of light because I am so impatient to publish. I owe ya, bud! You're awesome! XXX

ILYA

It’s an unusually short time until the next Montreal/Boston game, only four and a half weeks. When he’d first seen the schedule back in October, Ilya was delighted; he’d sent a pic of the calendar to Shane, who’d responded with a thumbs up and a smiley face.

But since then, something’s gone weird between them. Quiet. Sour.

Shane’s barely responding to Ilya’s texts. Sometimes it takes hours, sometimes days, although he always seems to look at them pretty fast. And when Ilya does get a reply, there’s something… walled off about it. A coolness that comes through the simple words. Shane is so polite, so perfectly correct that Ilya can’t see the real him underneath, and it fucking sucks. That facade is Shane’s super-power when it comes to the media and all the other important people they’re supposed to suck up to, but when it’s turned on Ilya it… Well, okay, it hurts.

Last week, Shane finally responded to some stupid jokey comment, and Ilya saw his text arrive, so he figured Shane was somewhere safe to talk and called. It rang, and it rang, and it rang, but Shane didn’t pick up.

Ilya wrote, fast and irritated:

You do not pick up?

You have problem?

Over a day later—twenty-four fucking hours later!—Shane wrote back. No I’m fine. Like that, with a full stop at the end.

So yeah, something’s changed.

Ilya’s not an idiot. He’s seen that stupid video of him in that club; even Sasha sent it to him. Ilyushka, you are breaking so many hearts, he wrote, followed by a string of laughing emojis, broken hearts, and eggplants. And the Raiders enjoyed it way too much, too. They fucking lauded him for it.

So there’s every possibility that Shane saw it too, and it’s not hard to imagine how he would’ve felt about it.

Maybe Ilya should be ashamed of that. Maybe, deep down, he is. But it’s not fair of Shane to be angry. Whatever’s between the two of them, they both know it’s a stunted, impossible thing that can’t ever see the light of day or reach its pale green tendrils up to the sun. It is what it is, and nothing more.

And beyond that, the world’s got expectations of them; and beyond that, Ilya’s got his own desires, his own needs. He’s not going to live like some medieval monk. He’s young, he’s in America and out from under the leaden weight of his father’s thumb; he’s got his own place to live and some money at last, and these should be the best years of his life. Why can’t they both just suck the marrow, live life full and fun, and see each other when they can? Why can’t Hollander just be cool about it? They both knew the score from the beginning, didn’t they?

The team’s been keyed up before this match, everyone remembering the shame of their last, undeserved defeat at Montreal’s hands. They want revenge. There’s something bloodthirsty in the locker room tonight, a hunger that’s vibrating with a violent edge. Ilya feels it too. He wants to show Hollander what he’s made of. He wants Hollander to see that Ilya’s winning, he’s succeeding.

He also wants to make Hollander want him the way Ilya wants Hollander.

He hunches over his phone in the corner of the locker room. There’s been no reply to the message he sent a couple of days ago, a carefully neutral See you Saturday.

Holding his phone down low, he hikes his jersey and undershirt up and takes a quick upshot of his abs, then sends it to Hollander before he has a chance to reconsider.

He was quick about it, but not quick enough. Marleau’s yelp of laughter cuts through the locker room chatter.

“Fucking hell, Roz, you slut! You already got someone lined up? Thought we were going out tonight?”

“Maybe,” says Ilya. “We will see if they like this picture, yes?”

“Get her to meet us at the club. I need my wingman, my Russian pussy magnet.”

“Club’s not the same without Ra-Ra-Rasputin,” chimes in Rivers. “You gotta come, Roz.”

“Have you seen picture of Rasputin?” says Ilya, pulling a face. “You insult me.” He briefly considers lecturing Rivers on the name Rasputin, which wasn’t the guy’s original name and basically means “debauched”, but thinks better of it, or it’ll become his permanent nickname.

“Oh, really? Thought he was a ladykiller?”

“Yes, but not handsome like me.”

“Yo, talking of handsome, you’re not catching up with Hollander tonight, then?” says Connors.

Ilya sighs. “Oh, are you back on your bullshit about how much you love Shane Hollander?” He tries to recall the English words for pining and unrequited, but if he ever knew them, he’s forgotten them. Fuck, he’s so much funnier in Russian. “Maybe you should call him, ask for date after game.”

“Well fuck me for paying attention to your life and trying to engage,” says Connors grumpily, turning back to his laces.

“Sorry,” says Ilya, tugging on a lock of Connors’ hair in a sort of half-assed apology. “But he is our enemy tonight, yes?”

“Gonna fuck him up good,” says Jaakola. “Gonna fuck them all up!”

“That’s the spirit, Coke,” says Paulie, rapping his helmet loudly on his locker to get their attention. “Move ‘em out, boys!”

Ilya hangs back, fussing with his skate, and checks his phone. 

Nothing. Well, fuck it. He tried.

Hollander. Gospodi, Hollander.

They’re barely five minutes into the first period, and that beautiful freak has zipped a quick wrist shot past Saint-Simon. In the roar of the crowd, Hollander flies past the bench, one arm raised in celebration, but he doesn’t even look at Ilya.

Which is probably why, when Ilya’s put in, he goes chasing after Hollander like a lion after a gazelle. He feels feral, bestial. He’s going to get him, he’s going to fucking get him, and he hurls himself forward, reaching wildly for the puck, but he judges it wrong, and there’s not enough room, and he smashes into the boards. 

Which would be humiliating enough, but then fucking Hollander flies away like some untouchable cheetah and scores again, fucking again!

Before second period, Ilya has to stand silently, eyes closed, just breathing. Pressing his palm against his chest, where he knows his necklace lies—control, control, control.

It’s a failed attempt. They’re fighting back hard, but the whole team’s tipped into anger and frustration and humiliation, and they’re playing like fucking assholes. When Ilya loses a face-off to Shane, his stick flies out, almost without him knowing, and the next thing he knows, he’s got a slashing penalty and Montreal scores again in the power play.

This is a fucking disaster.

Finally, in third period, they get on the scoreboard, so at least it’s not a shutout. But they’re still shit. By the final bell, Montreal have got two more goals, one of them pretty much because Marleau turned the puck over in his own zone.

Five-one. Five-fucking-one.

And Hollander’s maintained radio silence.

Ilya Rozanov is going to go out and get extremely fucking drunk.

One good thing about Saturday games is that the clubs are heaving afterwards. Ilya’s glad he doesn’t have to go and face the press after that shameful debacle. Paulie’s face as he headed out to the media was like a thunderstorm, him and Coach both. Coach was too fucking mad to even start hauling them over the coals post-game, but they all know it’s coming in the morning. Best to just get good and fucked up tonight.

Ilya and his regular posse—Marly, Rivers, Connors, Jaakola—head for The Estate, where the bouncers know them and the drinks aren’t too watered-down. They go straight for shots to ease the pain, huddling over the bar and yelling angrily about the disaster of that game until the alcohol starts to convert the rage into hysteria and laughter.

“What a fuck up,” says Marly, shaking his big head. “Christ, we were like goddamn kindergarteners out there.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Connors. “Me and Coke weren’t the ones getting penalties and turning over pucks.”

“Shit fucking happens!” yells Marly. “At least my fuck up was just an accident, at least I didn’t go for their Golden Boy like some goddamn animal.”

“Yeah, what the actual fuck, Roz?”

Ilya grinds his teeth and turns away, waving his hand to get the bartender’s attention and indicating another round. There’s no excuse for how he played, or for that penalty. 

But he can’t bear how quickly it’s all turned to shit. It’s only a month ago that him and Hollander met up and had a fucking awesome evening; it’s only a month ago that they were texting every day, stupid jokes and random comments and whatever. They were friends. And now Hollander won’t talk to him, and he’s making Ilya look like a goddamn loser on the ice. It sucks.

“We should go dance,” says Rivers. “Find some puss.”

“All we’d get tonight is a pity fuck,” says Marly, tossing back the new shot.

“Alright, some puss that doesn’t know hockey.”

“Good plan,” says Ilya. “Tonight we are not hockey players. Tonight we will have new jobs. Marly, you should be ambulance guy. Or fire fighter.”

“Paramedic, yeah, nice. I can do that.”

“I’ll be the fire fighter then,” says Rivers, punching Marly in the arm. “Maybe we know each other through work.”

“Dude, with that hair? Fuck off.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look like a stoner. Maybe a skater. Maybe you can be a skateboarder. Like, professional.”

“That’s not even a real job.”

“It’s about as real as skating after a fuckin’ puck for money.”

“True,” Rivers concedes.

“Connors can be accountant,” says Ilya, which is mean but makes everyone laugh.

“Fuck you. At least I look employable.”

“Yeah, Roz, what the fuck are you supposed to be, then?”

Ilya slings an arm around Jaakola’s huge shoulders. “Me and Coke are European underwear models.”

“Yeah, European underwear models always hang with accountants and paramedics.”

“We are always nice to the common people,” says Jaakola, running a hand back through his startlingly blonde hair and striking a pretty convincing model pose. Ilya likes Jaakola’s style. He’s like Ilya, not afraid to wear something a little outrageous. Americans can be so safe and predictable in their clothing. Not many of them would risk the tight baby-pink shirt Jaakola’s wearing tonight, that’s for sure.

“Hey Connors, maybe you can be my personal accountant,” says Ilya, unbuttoning his shirt nearly to his navel and shimmying his shoulders before pulling it aside, flashing a pec at Connors, who gags mockingly. “Another round, hey?”

“Slow down, Roz, or soon you’ll need a personal fuckin’ paramedic. Lucky I’m here,” says Marly, grinning wide as he waves down the bartender.

SHANE

Before the game, Shane was already roiling with too many feelings. They’re in Boston and facing the Raiders, and that means Ilya, which could, in turn, mean so many other things. Just thinking about him puts Shane in this weird, indefensible spiral of emotions. He knows perfectly well that their situation or arrangement or whatever-the-fuck it is isn’t something, like, exclusive. It’s not like a relationship or anything. It’s just a weird, thrilling secret, and he honestly thought he could live with that, right up until he saw the clear evidence of what it really meant.

Which is, Ilya being with other people. Being with girls. Women. Getting things from them that Shane can never give him.

Shane can never grind up against him on a dance floor and kiss him right there in front of everyone and grab his soft curls or the solid muscle of his ass. Shane and Ilya can never leave the dance floor hand in hand and get into a cab together where anyone could see them.

So that MMS from Ilya was just vicious. Right before the game? While Shane was in the locker room, surrounded by his teammates? A shot of his fucking abs, his happy trail? Jesus. Shane was so lucky nobody saw that.

But he really tried to shove that down deep and focus on his play, and during the game, everything went so well. Except Ilya was so rageful—why? It’s not like Shane sent him a sexy pic to try to distract him!—and he played like such a dick, all his beauty twisted and overcome by out-of-control strength and anger.

After a match, Shane usually prefers to go back to his hotel room and decompress, but not tonight. The celebrations are too intense because it was a fucking fantastic victory, and he’s still got too much tension in him. If he goes back to the room, he’ll be miserable because he’s not with Ilya, and at the same time, he'll be angry with Ilya for being such an asshole tonight. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, but he does know he’s too wound up to go back alone and be chill.

So Shane does something he doesn’t usually do. When Boiziau starts organising cabs to some bar, and yells, “Hollzy, you coming?” he doesn’t just shake his head and say no.

“I mean,” he says, shrugging, “I’d like to come, only… You know I’m not twenty-one, right?”

Boiziau groans and rolls his eyes. 

“Kid, please,” says Metropolit. “If you’re with us, you think any bar’s going to turn you away? You’re a fucking gladiator, tonight.”

“Yeah, we’ll get you in,” says Pike. “Come on, Hollzy, let’s go.”

So they do, and the guys are right. Nobody asks any questions. They spend lots of money and drink way too much, and Coach Theriault makes it perfectly clear that after a beauty of a game like that, he’s not gonna be watching curfew. You earned this one, boys, he says as he high-fives them all, slips Metropolit some cash for the next tab, and leaves before he sees anything he’d wish he hadn’t.

After the second bar, Boiziau declares he needs to dance, and Shane would normally definitely skulk away at this point. Still, tonight he’s fuzzy-headed enough to follow the others down the busy, brightly lit road and down an alleyway and into a club.

He never goes to clubs. Too much, too loud, too close. But he did it in Moscow, didn’t he? He did it there, and he can do it here. Ilya does it. Shane can do it too. He lets the others buy him something bitter and wildly alcoholic and throws it back like medicine, or a potion. As if it’s vodka and he’s in Russia. He follows them onto the dance floor and closes his eyes, remembering how Ilya stood close behind him and moved his hips for him that night. Imagines Svetlana in front of him, holding his hands and moving his arms. Remembers how he felt in that crazy, sexy, gossamer shirt.

He hears JJ (somewhere in the last hour he changed from Boiziau into JJ) whooping, shouting yeah Hollzy, and he opens his eyes, and there’s a girl dancing in front of him, smiling up sly and inviting in the shattery strobe light that makes the piercing in the side of her nose flash. She’s so much smaller than him. Pretty, yeah, he can see that. He smiles back to be polite, even if his smile is close-lipped and distant, and shuts his eyes again. Tries to lose himself back in the memories, but reality’s intruding now. He’s desperately aware of her close presence, right there demanding his attention, and can’t shake the knowledge that his teammates are watching him. His teammates, and who knows who else. So many people here, so tight and close and hot and—

Pike’s voice is loud, close to Shane’s ear. “So Rozanov’s not the only one with moves, huh?”

Shane’s eyes fly open. The girl’s laughing, reaching up, clasping her hands behind his head, so close now their bodies are touching. 

He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want this, or her. He doesn’t know what to do. He stops dancing, or whatever it was that he was doing.

He’s got to leave. Got to get out of here.

sorry yeah no sorry, just got to—sorry—

He’s stumbling, the club swirling around him. He’s got a vague idea of where the bathrooms are, and he makes his way through the crowd. Sorry, sorry can I just, sorry, thanks, and then he’s pushing through a door, nostrils assaulted with the scent of bleach, and the light’s too bright in here, and a voice says Hollander? and he turns and

and

and

and Ilya.

Some high crystalline note sounds in his ears, the world falling away.

It’s him. It’s really him. It’s impossible, but it’s possible because it’s real.

“Ilya,” says Shane, pathetically.

There are two other guys at the urinals, vague shapes that Shane barely registers, but a minute later they’re gone, and it’s just him and Ilya Rozanov, staring and breathing.

And then Ilya takes him by the arm and drags him into one of the stalls, slamming the door and locking it, and Shane doesn’t even try to resist. Something pulses between them, in time with the muffled music. 

It’s dimmer in here, small and close and Ilya, fuck, he looks so good. Some crazy shirt with a leopard print on it that would totally work in Moscow, Shane knows, but it looks mad here, or it would on anyone else. But not on Ilya. Ilya looks perfect. Perfect.

Angry.

Perfect.

“You do not answer,” says Ilya, unsmiling. Straight to the point, no polite small talk about the game, no joke or excuse for having pulled Shane into this fucking toilet. His gaze is intense. His shirt is unbuttoned so far down, and that necklace glints on his chest. Shane experiences a sudden flashback of the gold swinging wildly as Ilya thrust into his body. Oh, God, he’s so drunk. He can’t think, he can’t plan, it’s all just feeling, and the feeling is just wanting.

“I saw… a video,” he says, his voice cracking. Ilya pulls a face, confused. “Of you,” says Shane. “You, and a girl, and then another girl, and you… you kissed her.”

“Yes?” Ilya’s confused frown morphs into a sympathetic smirk. “Oh. Oh! You are…” He tilts his head to one side and strokes Shane’s cheek with a thumb. “You are jealous.”

Of course he’s jealous, he’s nauseous with it!

“You were an asshole. And you played a terrible game tonight,” Shane says. Wanting to punch, to hurt Ilya as much as Ilya’s hurt him. “No control.”

The wince is small, fast, then gone. “Yes,” says Ilya. “Was bad. I was angry. Because you do not answer.”

“Why would I? What’s the point?” Shane hisses. 

A shrug. “Point is that you are my friend. And we have good time together, no? Good sex?”

Jesus! They’re in a public bathroom! Shane shoots a panicked look at the door, and Ilya takes him by the chin, turns his face back. Something in Shane’s spine goes slack and obedient.

“Is nobody in here,” says Ilya, just as the door slams open, the heavy beats getting louder and then quieting again as the door closes, a disorienting Doppler effect. There are voices, laughter. A zip opens, another.

Frozen, Shane breathes, looking at Ilya, and Ilya’s gaze holds him still and steady. His plush mouth purses: shhhhhh. Slow and sluttish, he licks his lips. Bottom lip, top lip. His tongue is gleaming. His tongue has been in Shane’s mouth. On Shane’s skin. In Shane’s body.

Silently, Ilya mouths: You. Want. More?

And Shane, pathetic, hopeless and reckless and needy, nods.

They’re trapped there for a good five minutes before the bathroom empties again, and in that time, there’s silence. Not kissing, not touching. Ilya’s nearly as drunk as Shane is, he realises. They’re just staring at each other, wanting and wanting and wanting. Swirling together in some impossible world where they can be… what? Who knows. Just more.

The door closes.

“Go. Quick,” says Ilya. “I text you address. You come.”

And all Shane can do is nod.

met someone, he texts Hayden as he stands outside, around the corner, waiting for a cab. back soon all good.

don’t do anything i wouldn’t do ;) says Hayden, and Shane starts laughing out loud like a drunken idiot.

He’s sobered up a little, not all the way, by the time he gets out of the cab.

here he texts Ilya, and a moment later Ilya replies, wait.

A cab pulls up. Ilya gets out. Wordlessly, Shane follows him into the building. Wordlessly, they ride up in the elevator. Wordlessly, he follows Ilya into a small, generic apartment that has nothing special in it at all, except the most special thing in the world.

Hours pass, sweet and liquid.

They don’t fuck. They take each other’s clothes off and climb into Ilya’s bed and kiss and writhe and touch and sigh into each other’s mouths. The alcohol’s still swirling through Shane’s blood, and the world is slow. Time is not time, and every moment is everything there is. Ilya’s mouth moves over Shane’s skin, and Ilya’s curls twist softly through his fingers. They roll and move and grind and feel, feel, feel. There can never be enough of these kisses. Never enough of Ilya’s breath, loud in Shane’s ear as his hot, sleek tongue sends electric shivers up Shane’s spine. 

When Shane comes it’s the slow, inexorable culmination of a thousand touches and seven perfect words. Curled together face to face, their legs tangled, each with a thigh between the other’s. Hips rolling, cocks sliding close and tight. The kisses are deep, messy and self-indulgent. Shane’s lips are raw with it. Throbbing and stinging.

Ilya whispers, You think that girl gave me this? and suddenly Shane’s hips jerk, bliss roiling through and out and over. Ilya sucks in a groaning breath, and then he’s shuddering too, blood-hot liquid spurting between their bodies.

When it’s done Shane opens his eyes and finds Ilya staring at him, so close he’s an unfocused blur. Ilya reaches up, pushing sweaty strands of hair back off Shane’s forehead.

“Fuck, Hollander,” he says. “We have big problem.”

Chapter End Notes

P.S. Minor point about this chapter: I have no idea how easy it is or isn't to get into bars underage in America. It still astonishes me that the alcohol age limit is twenty-one there and to be honest I forgot about it at first. So if any of that didn't ring true, please forgive me :)

Chapter 4: In Which Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Have Some Surprisingly Honest Conversations

Chapter Notes

Recap: After their summer fling at the English language intensive hockey camp in Moscow, Shane and Ilya are now in America and Canada, playing for the NHL and stealing time together when they can. Feelings are intense, and it's been very disappointing to Ilya, in particular, to realise that the pressures and attitudes here in the States mirror a lot of those that are increasing back home. He threw himself into a party lifestyle, trying to fill the gaping chasm with girls, but it didn't work; worse, Shane found it so painful that it looked for a while as if things were all over. A fortuitous meeting in a Boston nightclub proved that it's a million miles from over, they're in this deep. Deep enough to be a big problem.

Buckets of gratitude to my lovely Strangeredlantern who spares you all the worst of my grammatical tics and twitches, you lucky things. She's cleaning ten k a week right now and that's a real labour of love. Thank you my sweet!!!

SHANE

It’s nearly four a.m. when Shane creeps into the hotel room he’s sharing with Pike, but Pike sleeps like the dead.

Lying in the cool, stiff hotel sheets, Shane fails utterly to fall asleep. When he closes his eyes, his body is still tingling with pleasure and relief, even though his exhausted mind is swirling with uncertainty. When the alarm goes off, less than two hours later, he jumps right out of bed and takes his phone into the bathroom, starting the shower even though he showered at Ilya’s, because he always showers first thing. He opens up the message thread with Ilya, where the last thing is that impressive shot of Ilya’s abs, and this time it just makes him smile. 

In the mirror, the overhead lights do pretty good things to the definition of his own abs. He takes a mirror selfie. not bad but if you want my yoga routine let me know, he writes, and sends it to Ilya.

The response comes a few hours later, when he’s already at the airport, fending off questions about who he disappeared with last night. Luckily most of the team is pretty seedy this morning so it doesn’t take much to shut them up.

also not bad but yoga very boring i think, says Ilya.

Shane writes, it’s good for flexibility. He’s proud of that one. Right there on the dividing line between “exercise tips between bros” and “shameless gay innuendo”.

That’s a line Ilya’s intimately familiar with, apparently. i train more for stamina he replies, and Shane goes briefly dizzy as his blood rushes south.

didn’t see much of that last night

fuck you, wait until next time, says Ilya. Insult? Promise? Both?

The next time they play isn’t until February. Shane swallows. February is… a lifetime away.

“Yo! Shane, you coming or what?”

The team’s on their feet, shuffling gate-wards.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry, coming,” says Shane, shoving his phone in his pocket.

February.

He leaves it a few days—he’s still trying not to be, you know, weird about this—even though this thing obviously IS weird—but the scattered texts aren’t enough. He’s got to hear Ilya’s voice. He’s got to keep the connection alive.

Shane knows he’s not great at maintaining friendships. It’s not so hard to be friends with someone you see almost every day, like Hayden; that’s self-maintaining. It would take effort not to be friends when you spend that much time together. But experience in other teams has taught Shane that without that structural support, his friendships easily wither. He’s had other friendships that have just faded away, not for any particular reason or animus, but just because Shane doesn’t seek out the other person. He’s usually perfectly happy alone; he doesn’t need social connections the way other people seem to.

But Ilya’s different. He can’t let that happen with Ilya. 

Besides which, there’s just so fucking much they need to talk about, none of which will wait until goddamn February.

He checks the Boston schedule against his own and figures out when Ilya’s likely to be free for a call. He buys a new notebook and spends an evening making careful notes of all the things he can ask about. On another page, he lists all the things he wants to make sure to say, and on a third page, the things he’s definitely not going to say.

free for a call later? he texts, Monday lunchtime.

ok comes back, quick and simple.

cool, I’ll call after dinner

ok. all good?

for sure, Shane writes. just missed your voice. He pauses, reconsiders, and deletes that part of the sentence. 

“Hello, Hollander.”

His voice is gravelly, his accent thick over the phone. Shane feels happiness spread over his own face when he hears it.

“Hey. Hi.”

“You must plan phone call? Like appointment for dentist?”

Oh. Has Shane done something weird? Bad start, very bad. “No, I just—I mean, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to, like… talk.”

“Shane. We are friends, yes?”

“Um. Yeah, sure, of course,” says Shane, thinking kinda, but I’ve never had a friend like you.

“So… you want to talk about something?” says Ilya, and he sounds a little cautious.

Opening his notebook, Shane is terribly proud of himself for having prepared this list. “Well, okay, um, yeah, your apartment is nice. It was good to see where you’re living. Did you buy or are you renting?”

There’s a small pause. Ilya says, “What are you talking about? I have seen your apartment. Mine is shit.”

Oh, great start, Shane. “It’s not shit. I mean, sure, it’s a bit smaller than here, but—”

“Is very small. Is like box for shoes. Has no good sunlight, came with this furniture, nothing is mine.”

“Oh. You’re renting, then?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Okay. Um. Right.”

Is it too soon to move to the next subject? This is not going great so far, but Ilya sighs and takes pity on him. “You buy yours?” he asks.

“Yeah. Signing bonus, you know, that made a really good down payment. What did you do with your bonus, something fun?”

Ilya snorts loudly. “Yes, bought car with what is left after… family.”

“What? Why did they need money? Are they okay?”

“Euh. Mostly just fucking greedy,” says Ilya bitterly. “Blyat, with the—the—the—” He makes a frustrated sound, like he can’t find the right words. “American dollar is big money in Russia,” he says.

“Oh, like, the exchange rate?”

“Yes, yes, exchange rate. Was a lot in Russia. But now they think I am… machine for make money.”

“Shit. That sucks.”

“You did not meet Alexei. My brother. He is very big asshole.”

“You’re sending him money too?”

“Yes.”

“Why? That’s not fair. It’s your money. You shouldn’t have to do that.”

“Oh, now you are financial advisor?”

“No, I—sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Ilya interrupts him. “No, forget this. Tell me. You have fun in Boston last week?” His voice has gone sleek, full of insinuations.

“It was alright, I guess,” says Shane, equally sly. “Played some killer hockey.”

“Huh. Next time, we beat you.”

“Maybe. And then I went out and got drunk and… met someone.”

“Someone? Oh, really? Where you meet?”

“In a bathroom,” says Shane, remembering and laughing.

“Was big surprise, huh?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Your face,” says Ilya, with a sudden disarming giggle. “Your face, confused and drunk. And your mouth opens and you let me pull you into toilet.”

“Into the stall,” Shane corrects him. “You can’t say into the toilet, it sounds wrong.”

“Whatever, you liked it.”

Hell yes he did. “You were surprised to see me, too.”

“No,” says Ilya. “Was watching you dance.”

“Shit, really?” That’s embarrassing.

“Yes, really, and I think, look, was me and Sveta taught him to do this.”

“Yeah,” says Shane softly. “Yeah, I was thinking about that, while I was dancing. About that night. That shirt you made me wear.”

“Mmm,” says Ilya, a low hum that resonates down Shane’s spine. “You looked very, very good in that shirt.”

“Did you bring it? From Russia?”

Another hum. “I did. I think maybe… maybe you will wear it again. For me.”

Shane’s cock swells. Holy shit, are they having some sort of phone sex here? That’s not really what he intended. He has to get to his main point. He clears his throat.

“Um. Maybe. But, listen, I want… I want to say sorry, I guess. About being such a dick about that girl. Because I get it, honest, I do. I know you, um, like both.”

Ilya’s silent for a moment. Shane ploughs on, using the words in his notebook like a crutch. “And also I understand that we won’t get to see each other that often, and that’s just the way it is. So I won’t do that again, I won’t be a jerk like that, okay? I know we’re—”

“Shane,” says Ilya softly.

“—I know we’re just having some fun and that’s cool and—”

“Shane.”

Shane subsides. Waits.

Ilya heaves a deep, heavy sigh. “In Russia,” he says, “there is a lot of political pressure now, yes? From church, from government. Is not okay to be like us. Is getting worse. People get hurt, you understand? Beaten.”

Wow, this conversation just took a hard U-turn away from potential phone sex. “Yeah,” Shane says. “Yeah, I know. I read.”

“And I think, before I come here, that this will be different in America. Because here is legal, here is parades, pride, whatever.”

Shane snorts at this naivety, and Ilya says, “Yes. Yes, exactly. Is okay some places but is not okay in hockey. Right?”

“Right,” says Shane, and his voice comes out very small.

“My team is very… very not kind about these things,” says Ilya.

“Yeah. Montreal, too.”

“And we are very new, yes? Rookies? I need this visa, Shane. I need to be good.”

“Sure. Sure, I get that.”

This is definitely heading in a bad direction. Ilya is definitely about to tell Shane to stop pestering him.

“So, the girls,” says Ilya. “The girls are useful.”

“Useful?”

“Yes. Everyone looks at the girls. Everyone says, oh Ilya Rozanov, such a man-whore, and—”

“Wait,” says Shane. “You learned ‘man-whore’?”

“Yes, Jack Rivers very impressed with me. Calls me man-whore. Nobody thinks Ilya Rozanov texts Shane Hollander too much. Nobody thinks is strange that Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander meet up after games, or talk on phone.”

“Oh,” is all that Shane manages, because the sudden understanding of where this discussion is going has exploded into a relief so sparkly he’s struggling to put together a proper sentence.

“But no girls are like you,” says Ilya. “Capeesh?”

The relief turns into a hysterical giggle. Man-whore and now capeesh? “Did you just say capeesh?”

“Yes, means, do you understand?”

“Yeah, I know what it means, but you sound like an Italian mobster. Where the hell did you pick that up?”

“Gospodi, no, Russian mobster only.”

Shane takes a deep, settling breath, controlling his smile. God, he loves talking to Ilya. How can someone be so cool and so ridiculous at the same time? “Okay,” he says. “So the girls are useful.”

“Yes. You should find some.”

“No. 'Cos I’m not… I don’t like both.”

“You cannot pretend?”

“I mean… a bit, but I don’t want to lie to anybody. Any girls. It’s not… right.”

“Okay. You have told anybody this? That you are gay?”

And there it is. The first time somebody else has ever voiced that about him. It was less terrifying than it could’ve been. Possibly because it came from someone who’s inserted their penis into Shane. “No, nobody. Only, um. Only you. Just then.”

“Wow,” says Ilya, warm and gentle. “Very brave, Hollander.”

“Not really. I think you probably had a clue,” says Shane.

“Still. Is hard to say. You want to tell anybody else? Like your family?”

Impossible to imagine. And besides, what would it achieve? It’s not like Shane could make an announcement and suddenly have Ilya.

“No.”

“Okay. So you know, and I know.”

“Yeah,” says Shane. “You know, and I know. But we won’t tell anyone.”

“No. We will hide behind the wall of puck bunnies and tell nobody what we are doing behind this wall,” says Ilya solemnly. 

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

There’s a small silence, and Shane’s just gone back to scanning his list of Questions to Start Conversations With Ilya when Ilya says, “Zaitsev has game Wednesday. You have no game, I have no game. You want to watch together?”

“What? Where’s he playing? I don’t think I can—”

“On television, Hollander. I watch here, you watch there, we talk on phone.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

“Okay. Good. Talk to you Wednesday,” says Ilya, and then he makes a kissing sound and hangs up.

“You know my schedule, huh?” says Shane to his disconnected phone, smiling like an idiot.

ILYA

Some nights it’s really goddamn hard to find a girl with short hair, but tonight in Washington, Ilya’s caught himself a great one. A sleek black pixie cut, dark eyes. Ideal. He encourages her to loll back against his chest on the banquette in a dark corner of this raucous bar and runs his fingers through her hair, enjoying the sharp flick of the spiky strands.

She smells wrong, of course, too sweet and floral. And her weight is wrong. Her shoulders are narrow and spindly. But she’ll do. When Rivers pulls out his phone and trains it on them, Ilya gives a lazy wink. She wriggles back against him, laughing, and he gives her the kiss she’s obviously angling for, secure in the knowledge that Rivers will immortalise the moment and spread it around like wildfire.

It’s a weird feeling, knowing that he’s walking this fake line. He likes having this pretty, wriggly handful in his lap. Who wouldn’t? But at the same time…

She’s not him. She’s not Shane.

Ilya wasn’t joking when he told Hollander they had a big problem. It’s fucking huge. Hollander’s all he can think about, all he wants. Black eyes and freckles and sleek, muscled bulk and the intense pleasure of fucking into that tight, hot, welcoming place. It’s been way too long since they fucked, and Ilya’s stupid with desire. It would be so easy to take this girl home and release all that tension into her soft body. Still, every time he thinks about it, Shane Hollander’s face appears in his imagination, shiny-eyed, telling Ilya it’s okay and he doesn't mind—even though it’s painfully obvious that it’s not, and he absolutely fucking does.

Ilya’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he lifts his hips to dig it out. The girl in his lap—Brittany, something like that?— briefly reads this as a greedy thrust, and laughs, leaning backwards and baring her throat.

She is not impressed when she catches sight of his phone and realises what he's actually doing.

The Colonel, it says. Ilya grimaces and declines.

“I think I am leaving now,” he murmurs into her ear. “Coming?”

It’s really shitty, what he does next. Leads her outside, making sure everyone sees them head out together, and then hails a cab. He opens the door and says, “This one is for you.”

“What? You’re not coming with me? Come on. Come with me,” she says, plaintive, inviting, sticking out her bottom lip. 

He pulls her into an embrace, rubbing his cheek over her hair.

“No.”

Less plaintive now, more offended: “Why the fuck not?”

He sighs and tells a kindly lie. “Americans. So free with your bodies. Not like that in Russia.”

“Well… maybe you should let me teach you to be more American.”

“Gospodi! If I start, how do I stop? With someone so beautiful?”

“Who says you have to stop?” she says, arching her spine and pushing her (very charming) breasts against him.

He kisses her until she goes soft and limp, offering her a feeble consolation prize.

“Irresistible,” he murmurs, and gently pushes her into the cab.

When he gets home, he calls his father. The conversation is agonising. Circular, accusatory, wild. At one point, his father references Ilya’s mother, as if she’s still alive and able to be offended by Ilya’s latest hockey statistics.

Once he gets off the phone, Ilya drinks a big glass of water, strips off and gets into bed. He calls the house line, back in Moscow. Polina, as expected, answers.

“Privet?”

“Privet, Polina. It’s Ilya.”

“Oh. Hello,” says Polina guardedly. “Do you want your father?”

“No. No, I was hoping to talk to you. I had a conversation with him just now, and it was… odd.”

Polina is silent.

“Is he alright?”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Ilya. He’s old and becoming confused. He says strange things. He does strange things.”

It doesn’t matter how difficult it’s been to deal with his father; hearing this still stabs Ilya in the heart.

“Yes,” he says. “Has he been to the doctor?”

Polina laughs, high and a little wild. “What do you think?”

Yeah.

“Maybe he should?” says Ilya. “Maybe you should suggest it?”

“Ilya, I can’t—he doesn’t listen to me. You know that.”

Ilya rubs his forehead. Fuck. Fucking Russia. “What does Alexei say?”

“That Grigori is fine.”

“He’s not.”

“No. No, he’s not.”

Ilya heaves a deep sigh. “Is there… anything you need?”

Polina’s tone changes into something lighter, something wheedling. “Oh, Ilyushka. You know how much you help. The money you send makes your papa’s life so much easier. Keeping the driver. The cleaner. His club. We are so grateful. But it’s a while since…”

She trails off, letting it hang.

“Does he need something else?” says Ilya. “A… I don’t know, a nurse? An… assistant?”

“An assistant! That would be such a good idea. I could arrange that. If you could…”

Send me more money. It hangs in the air.

“Let me know what you need,” says Ilya, suddenly exhausted, and Polina coos at him, tells him what a good son he is, and says she has to go.

The universe is a piece of shit sometimes, but other times it’s goddamn benevolent: as soon as Ilya hangs up, there’s a chime. Shane.

you awake?

It’s after midnight. Late for Shane. yes, Ilya replies.

good match

yes, did you see the fight

I wasn’t talking about that

fucking kent

yeah he’s an asshole

price got him good

yeah but your goal was awesome

you see me wink at camera?

yeah

was for you ;)

There’s a pause then. Ilya suspects Shane is pleased but feeling shy. Eventually a reply arrives, on another topic entirely:

not long till christmas break huh

I know, i have calendar

what are you doing?

They all get three days over Christmas, before the insanity of the New Year run. For a brief moment, Ilya wonders whether Hollander is making some circular, careful attempt at suggesting meeting up. But that’s mad, right? Christmas is a family thing. Hollander’s surely going to be spending it with his parents.

Paulson, he writes. Paulie and Suze like to be mom and dad for foreign (here he pauses and does some googling) orphans

oh cool, that’s cool

yes

Shane doesn’t immediately reply. Ilya looks back up the thread and realises that Shane was probably angling for a way to meet up. Damn. (But on the other hand… Ilya’s got it bad, but maybe not bad enough for Canadian Family Christmas.)

oh well guess it’s late, just wanted to tell you good goal, Shane writes eventually.

thank you Hollander

when are you going to start calling me shane

maybe never

Shane doesn’t reply. Ilya writes,

or maybe I whisper it in your ear next time while you are coming

The dots flicker. Disappear. Flicker. Ilya smiles.

goodnight ilya

goodnight hollander.

Two days later he gets a call from Fyodor, just as he’s leaving the rink.

“Good time to talk?” says Fyodor, and Ilya can tell from his self-satisfied tone that this is going to be a conversation worth having.

“Sure,” he says, leaning against his car, warm with anticipation.

“Got an offer for you, kid.”

“What sort of offer?”

“Ad. With sponsorship.”

Yes! Yes! 

“Who for?”

“CCM,” says Fyodor smugly.

Fucking hell! Ilya’s fist clenches, celebratory. At last! At last, a solid brand has noticed him! This is where the big bucks come from. The bucks that’ll mean he’ll still have something left for himself after his goddamn family has finished bleeding him dry.

“What’s it worth?”

“Why? You going to turn it down if it doesn’t meet your expectations?”

“I didn’t say that. Just wondering if my fucking agent actually negotiates for me or not.”

“You should have more faith, kid. I had some inside information, found out what they were offering the other guy. I shifted them from a seventy-thirty split to fifty-five, forty-five.”

A split? With who? “Huh?” says Ilya.

“You and Shane Hollander. Got you nearly as much as the first draft pick. You going to say thank you, Fyodor, or what?”

Ilya should be overjoyed, but he’s fucking pissed. Seventy-thirty? What the actual fuck? That’s just insulting. Insulting!

He’s sulky all evening, complaining on the phone to Sveta until she loses patience with him.

“My god, listen to yourself! So whiny!”

“He is not twice as good as me!”

“Nobody said he was.”

“Seventy-thirty? That’s exactly what that says. It’s just fucking maths.”

“You're insulted by numbers. Impossible. Anyway, it’s nearly even now, right?”

Ilya grunts.

“When is the shoot?”

“Next week.”

“You’re free? Don’t have to miss a game?”

“No, it worked out well. Quick flight up on Wednesday, shoot, back on the Thursday red-eye, and I can make the team flight to Pittsburgh.”

“Not worth trying to get a late flight back on Wednesday?”

“Nah,” says Ilya airily. Obviously, he’s not coming back on Wednesday. Obviously, he’s planning on meeting up with Hollander and fucking his brains out.

Sveta says, “It’s really short notice. Rather unprofessional of them.”

This hasn’t occurred to Ilya until now. It’s his first endorsement offer, so what would he know? “So what?”

“Well, what’s the deal for? Print? TV? More than one season?”

“I don’t know, Fyodor takes care of boring shit. I look pretty for the camera.”

“Honestly, Ilyushka!”

“Just be happy for me, can’t you?”

“Oh, happy like you are, Mr Seventy-Thirty Whiny Baby?”

“Bitch,” says Ilya lovingly. There’s another call coming in. “Got to go. Someone else wants me. I’m in massive demand today. Very very popular.”

“Of course you are. Congrats. Love you.”

He blows her a string of noisy kisses and hangs up, taking the other call.

It’s Shane. He must’ve got the good news about the ad, too.

“Hello,” says Ilya. “Good day for us, huh?”

“You got the offer, then?”

“Yes. You are not mad about the split?”

“No, of course not.”

“Because, did you know, my agent negotiated. Fifty-five, forty-five now.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, so you are mad.”

“Kinda. Why am I getting less than you?” Shane says plaintively.

“What? No. You are fifty-five.”

“Then why are you getting less than me?”

This conversation is very confusing. Ilya thinks for a second that Shane’s manager is obviously not as upfront as Fyodor, and then remembers that Shane’s manager is his mother. “It was seventy-thirty before,” Ilya tells him. “Fyodor did good job. Negotiated up.”

Shane is silent for a moment, and when he speaks, he sounds incredulous. “Seventy-thirty?” he says. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, but so what? Is not that now. And we meet next week. Is good.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m… yeah, definitely. But I’m really sorry about the split. I’ll tell them it’s gotta be fifty-fifty.”

He honestly sounds kind of upset by it. “Hey,” says Ilya. “Is okay. I don’t give a fuck.”

“Yeah, but you need it more than me. I mean, that’s why I suggested this.”

Now it’s Ilya’s turn to pause. “What?”

“Mom had this thing lined up, and then I thought, wouldn’t it be better if it was the two of us instead of just me, and she agreed. It’s a good story, right? International friends, rivals on the ice? CCM were really keen, especially once I said we’d just split the fee, so it was a win for everyone, but I didn’t know that Mom… Shit, Ilya, I’m so sorry, that was not okay, I didn’t know about the seventy-thirty thing. That was not cool. I’m gonna tell her. It’s gotta be even. I thought it would be even, like it didn’t even occur to me that it wouldn’t be, you know?”

That was a lot of English, delivered fast, an anxious gabble. Ilya’s brain is lagging, or possibly being strangulated by embarrassment and anger.

“Wait. Stop. Hollander. This is—they did not choose me? You ask them to choose me? You—you give me your fucking money? You are sorry for me?”

He stands up, starts pacing.

“No! No, I just thought after what you said about your family needing money, it might be useful. Like, that’s where most of the big money is, right? Endorsement deals? And honestly, Mom’s working on a few, and I don’t need them all, I really don’t, so this was just—”

Ilya goes to the window, with its north-facing view of a thousand other windows, and leans his forehead against the glass, grinding his teeth and letting Shane’s voice wash over him.

Svetlana was right. This is why it was so last-minute. Because this isn’t him being wanted or valued; this is pity money.

It’s a lot of pity money, though.

A lot of American pity money.

Fuck it. Any way in is a good way in, right?

Nobody has to know.

The phone’s gone quiet.

“Ilya?” says Shane. “Ilya? Are you still there?”

“Mmm. Yes. I’m here.”

“Are you pissed off with me?”

Ilya sighs. “A little.”

“Oh.”

“I know you… try to do nice thing. But I do not need, uh… money gift.”

“Charity?” says Shane in a small voice. “It wasn’t charity, Ilya.”

“I think so, yes.”

“No. It was… more that I wanted to see you. It was mostly a way to see you.”

Which is nothing to be sneezed at, it’s true. That admission sits much warmer in Ilya’s gut than the spiky feeling of being pitied.

“And it’ll be fun,” Shane says. “So much more fun with you there. I hate these things, but with you there, it’ll be all different.”

Ilya’s moving quickly through all the stages of disappointment, pushing himself straight up to acceptance and aiming for gratitude. Because Shane’s right. The money will be appreciated, and the exposure will be great.

And Shane’s done all this so that he can see Ilya, which is pretty charming.

He’s still fucking salty about that seventy-thirty, though. The guys were right about Shane’s mother. That woman is tough. He can see why Shane’s too scared to tell her he’s gay. Serves her right that her son’s only doing this so he can get thoroughly fucked.

“Okay. We will make it fun, then,” he says. Promises. Hopes. “Very, very, very fun.”

Chapter End Notes

Why yes, friends, we ARE remixing the CCM shoot :)

Chapter 5: In Which Shane Hollander's Dreams Come True in a Shower

Chapter Notes

Recap: After their summer fling at the English language intensive hockey camp in Moscow, Shane and Ilya are now in America and Canada, playing for the NHL and stealing time together when they can. Feelings are intense, although they both reluctantly understand the limits of what this relationship can be. Knowing that Ilya's under pressure to send money home, Shane came up with a plan to include him in a CCM endorsement shoot that his mom set up. Yeah team, let's remix *that* sucker :)

A.k.a., Tess has fun with Yuna and the elevator.

In an ironic twist of grammatical fate, this chapter my beloved beta Strangeredlantern has been ADDING commas. To be fair, the jar of confiscated commas was very full so she is probably repurposing some of those. Also, she courageously attempted to Americanise (see what I did there) my spellings but I am very resistant. All the -ises are on me sorry team. I caved on smolder though. I like the vibe on that one. Consistency? Never heard of her. Anyway, I appreciate you to bits and pieces, honey pie!

SHANE

Ilya’s a bit late to the shoot. Well, not late late, but Shane’s early, so it feels late. His mom always says, On time is late. Fifteen minutes early is on time.

He stands anxiously at the side of the rink, watching the crew setting up as his mother talks to the CCM rep, the marketing guy or whatever he is. It’s not that Shane doesn’t think Ilya will get here. It’s just that he really wants him to be here already.

“So glad you were able to see the vision,” his mom says to the guy. Tim? Tom? Yeah, Tom. “The two of them.”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, it meant a lot of rework! Had to redo all the storyboards, sort extra gear.”

“Oh, I’m sure. We’re grateful you were able to do that. I’m sure it’s going to be worth the effort, though. Right, Shane?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Very.”

“It’s been really special, for Shane and Ilya to connect while Shane was in Russia and then be the top two picks. A nice narrative, right?”

Tom nods, squinting at his phone. “Absolutely. And, uh… two for the price of one was an easy sell for my bosses.”

“Mmm. Well, that was a one-time offer, of course,” says his mother, with a charming but steel-laced laugh.

Shane stares at the door. He doesn’t want to think about that two-for-one thing. He’s still mad that his mom tried to keep seventy percent of the fee.

“But we did all the setup!” she’d said. “We did all the hard work; all he has to do is turn up and skate around a little!”

“That’s all I do, Mom.”

“Yes, but you do it so well. And now a percentage of Ilya’s fee is going to go to his agent, who didn’t do much at all. I mean, you know I don’t care about the agent fee for me, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

It’s true that she doesn’t care much about the money. She takes a much lower cut than other agents and works significantly harder. But still.

A door clangs at the other end of the rink, and Shane’s head jerks up. In an instant, he knows it’s Ilya. The curls, the gait, the fucking jawline. He’s here!

Ilya strides towards them, a serious expression on his face. He holds out a hand to Shane’s mother, and she takes it and shakes it in a businesslike manner.

“Mrs Hollander, hello. It is good to meet you. I am Ilya Rozanov.”

“Hello, Ilya. Yuna, please. This is Tom, from CCM, have you met?”

Ilya and Tom shake hands. 

“Is your, ah, representative coming?” says Mom.

“No,” says Ilya, a little uncertainly. “He is busy man.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not a problem. I’m here to liaise if needed, right, Tom?”

“Sure. Hi, Ilya.” Tom holds out a hand.

“Is very good to meet you in person, Tom,” says Ilya. “I am very happy for opportunity. Will work very hard for you today, yes?”

He fixes Tom with an intense, sincere gaze that makes the man swallow. Shane knows what it feels like, that kind of attention from Ilya—i.e., overwhelmingly good. 

After two or three minutes of being extremely charming to Tom, Ilya turns to Shane, who holds out a hand, a little awkwardly. Ilya takes it, but uses it to pull him into a brief, hard hug, slapping him on the back.

“Hollander. Is very good to see you.”

“You too. I’m, um. Glad this worked out.”

“Yes. Was very nice thought. Thank you.” He flicks a sly, sideways glance at Shane’s mom, smiling lop-sided. “Very… generous.”

Mom can read subtext like a book, a witch-like skill that Shane has absolutely not inherited, but even Shane understands that’s a little dig about the fee split. She says, “Well, it turns out you have a pretty good agent, I guess.”

“Not as good as Shane’s,” says Ilya, with a quick wink.

A guy comes up, wearing small round glasses. He’s the shoot director. “Great, we’re all here? Hi, Ilya. Hi. I’m Jake, good to meet you. Why don’t you guys follow me to makeup, and we’ll go through the plan for the day.”

“I’ll wait up there,” Mom says, gesturing to the stands.

“You don’t need to hang around,” says Shane. “You can—”

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” Mom says cheerfully, waving him away.

Any rink feels safe, familiar, a place of control and understanding. Usually. But today’s different. Partly, it’s because it’s so echoey and empty, only a handful of people and a bunch of cameras and lights in a place they don’t belong. But that’s not the main thing that’s discombobulating Shane. Mostly, it’s just the dangerous thrill of being here with Ilya.

Apart from the chaos of the draft and the two games they’ve played against each other, Shane hasn’t been with Ilya in public since the day they left Voskresensk for Balashikha. And that means he’s barely been in public with Ilya since they started having sex, like, for real, serious gay sex. 

And now here they are with multiple cameras trained on them as they skate towards each other, ice chips flying as they come to a hard stop on their marks, and the director keeps saying that’s it, intensity, competition, yeah, you want to WIN, let me see it on your face. So Shane has to keep staring at Ilya, and Ilya has to keep staring back, and this situation is fucking wild. All Shane can see in Ilya’s expression is thrill and desire, and he’s sure he looks exactly the same in return. 

It’s as if they’re playing some cunning trick on the world, just the two of them. He can’t believe they’re being paid to do this. It feels like he’s done something so sneaky and wicked, and it just feels great. But also freaky. Every time their sticks collide, right there on the mark, it feels like he’s touching Ilya right here in front of the crew and the cameras and the guy from CCM and even his goddamn mother.

After that, they have to do individual close-ups.

Shane stands over by the camera guy, trying to look nonchalant as he watches Ilya skate slowly backward towards the lens, looking over his shoulder with that incendiary smolder of his, then hit his mark perfectly and take off his helmet, shaking his curls free.

(Okay, that bit’s crazy, because everyone knows that when your helmet comes off, you’ve got shitty, squashed, sweaty helmet hair, but the hair person’s pretty good, and Ilya’s hair looks fucking amazing.)

When it’s Shane’s turn, he feels serious pressure. He can’t look as good as Ilya does. No way. But Ilya stands just behind the camera and watches him intently, and damn, that helps. He gets it in only a couple of takes.

When they want some wider shots, one at a time, he heads up to the seats to check in with his mother.

“Looks like it’s going well,” she says. Down below, Ilya whoops as he skates fast and hard into a tight turn, leaning into it so hard it looks like he’ll slide out, then lifting out of it, sweet and joyful. “He’s a good skater, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Nearly as good as you.”

“Mom. It’s not a competition.”

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“But if it was,” he says, “We’d be pretty even.” Not seventy-thirty.

“We’re not going to fight about that again, are we?”

They exchange the kind of look that parents and children do, replaying an entire argument, their respective positions on the topic, and an agreement to leave it alone, all in the space of two seconds.

“Anyway,” he says, “I just wanted to come up and say you should head back to the hotel whenever. Seriously, I don’t need you here; it’s all under control. And once we finish up, I might go get a drink with Ilya.”

“Oh. Okay, then. How about I scout around for somewhere nice for dinner? There was a nice-looking okonomiyaki place a couple of blocks over. Dad and I ate there last time you played in Toronto. Cheap and cheerful, but I think you’d like it.”

“Um. Maybe, I mean, we might be a while. Don’t wait for me.”

“We could all go. I’d like to meet him properly, buy him dinner to say thank you for all the help he gave you in Russia.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Can we, I don’t know, see? I’ll keep in touch?”

“Sure, honey. Whatever you want. Hey, I think Jake’s waving for you.”

“Yeah. Better go. See you later.”

She kisses his padded shoulder, and he clomps down the steps to the ice. He’s a terrible son, but he doesn’t want to share Ilya with his mother for the few hours he’s got him.

An hour later, the crew is packing up. The wardrobe guy has reclaimed all the gear, and Shane heads into the shower. Ilya is still talking cheerful shit with Tom, trying to weasel his way into keeping some stuff.

The showers are pretty nice here. Open, bright, clean, and with really good water pressure. Shane ducks his head under and enjoys the beating of it on his skull and a moment of quiet where nobody’s watching him. Being unseen is so fucking relaxing after a day like today.

He doesn’t hear Ilya come in; just a long, low wolf-whistle, and then the showerhead next to him turns on and Ilya’s right there, naked and gorgeous.

“Shhh!” says Shane, immediately and wildly aroused but also faintly scandalised. “What if someone heard you whistle like that?”

“Then they think I am teasing my very handsome friend. But nobody is there, locker room is empty.”

Ilya pushes his hair back, slick and wet, and his eyes flick down to Shane’s groin and back again, pleased at what they’ve found there.

“Don’t,” says Shane warningly, but unfortunately even the idea sets him off, and he’s getting harder by the second.

“Don’t what?” says Ilya, turning to face him and then shamelessly stroking his own filling cock. Heat flares across Shane’s face.

“Not here,” he says.

“Why not?” Ilya licks his lips, staring. “I think you want. I think you work very hard to make this happen. To have us both here alone in this place.”

This is undeniable. Ever since Shane had the idea, he’s been imagining these moments: getting ready with Ilya, doing the shoot, and yeah. Yeah, he’s thought about being right here in the showers after. Just the two of them.

Ilya turns off his own shower and steps under Shane’s. Close and warm and damp, crowding Shane back against the tiles. “Was good plan,” he murmurs, and then leans in and licks the water from Shane’s cheekbones, one side and then the other, stroking up Shane’s arms.

“I guess so. Maybe I deserve a reward for coming up with such a good plan,” says Shane, shifting a little so their bellies and their erections bump together. Ilya’s nostrils flare.

“Mmm. Reward. And also, you have paid thousands of dollars for this, yes?” Ilya tilts his head and reaches around to grope Shane’s ass. The look on his face is hard to read. “Hope I am worth the money.”

“I didn’t pay for this,” says Shane, even though technically he did.

“Yes. Thousands. I think I owe you… a lot tonight.” Ilya runs the end of his nose over Shane’s cheek, all the way to his ear, where he murmurs, “How many times you think you can come tonight?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer to this question. Apparently, it’s rhetorical. He kneels down and says, “We will find out,” before opening his wicked mouth and taking Shane inside.

“Oh Christ,” says Shane. They can’t do this here! They absolutely can’t! 

But Ilya is. He is, and it’s so… fucking… good. From this angle, his shoulders are massive, broad, and shining wetly, and the curve of his unfeasibly round, biteable ass is insane. His tongue is hot and busy, swirling over Shane’s sensitive flesh, and he’s moving back and forth with rapid intention. Shane’s not going to last long, which is both disappointing and yet practical under the circumstances, so he gives in to this lunacy and grabs Ilya’s head, shoving in deep and fast. Ilya hums around his mouthful, fingers digging into Shane’s flesh, and—

A metallic sound. “Ilya?” someone calls from the locker room. “You in there?”

Shane shoves Ilya away so hard that he unbalances and falls backward, sprawling on the wet tiles. For a shocked second, Shane’s certain he’ll be angry, but Ilya’s mouth just widens in hilarity.

“Don’t come in, Tom, naked athletes in here,” Ilya calls, not making any attempt to get up despite Shane’s insistent gesticulations. Panicked, Shane turns to face the wall, cupping his hands over his genitals.

“Oh, yeah, don’t worry, I know!” yells Tom cheerfully. “Just dropping those gloves for you. Glad you liked them so much.”

“Spasibo, Tom! Thank you! Sorry, I can’t come out. Shampoo in hair.”

“No problem. I’m off. Thanks for a great shoot. Glad you could make it. Worked out well.”

“Yes, very well,” says Ilya, running his foot up the back of Shane’s thigh. 

Shane flinches. “Bye, Tom,” he calls loudly. “It was a great day.”

“Oh, hi Shane. Yeah, great day. Hope we get to do it again sometime.”

“For sure,” says Shane to the tiles, viciously kicking Ilya’s groping foot away.

The door swings shut, and Ilya sits up, reaching to stroke Shane’s flank. “Gone. Turn around, Hollander. Give me that dick.”

Shane turns the shower off, shaking his head. His pulse is still wild. “Are you fucking crazy? We nearly got caught, and you still want to—no, absolutely not.” Fear’s deflated his erection pretty thoroughly, anyway.

Ilya pouts. “How will we find out important things like how many times can you come in one night if you do not try?”

Reaching out a hand, Shane pulls Ilya to his feet. “Oh, I’m gonna try. Just not in a semi-public bathroom.”

Ilya sighs, dramatically disappointed. “Okay. Better get to hotel, then. But kiss first, yes?”

This offer is, of course, irresistible. 

ILYA

Ilya drops his bag in his room, brushes his teeth, applies some cologne, pulls on a clean sleeveless tee, and checks his hair. It’s looking pretty good, despite getting damp in the shower; that hair woman knew what to do with curls, definitely. He shrugs on his leather jacket, tucks a small bottle of lube and a couple of condoms in his pocket, gives himself an encouraging wink in the mirror, and heads to Hollander’s room, his blood fizzing.

God, he can’t wait. It’s been so long since they were last together, properly, and spending all day with Hollander, watching his insane skills and the perfection of his freckled face, has wound Ilya up to a fever pitch. Top that off with the frustration of an unconsummated blow job and the thrill of nearly getting caught, and you’ve wired up a truly explosive device. Ilya’s going to get in that room and have that pretty, smooth cock in his mouth before its owner knows what hit him. He’s gonna—

Ding. The elevator slows to a halt. Ilya checks the floor number, but it’s not there yet. He moves to the back of the elevator, composing his features into a neutral expression. The door slides open.

There’s—

Fuck—

Yuna Hollander.

She smiles at him, a tight, careful smile. “Hello.” She enters and checks the floor buttons. “Oh, are you going up to see Shane too?”

“No,” says Ilya instinctively. Idiotically. “Nobody.”

“Oh, sorry, I misunderstood. You’re on fourteen too, then?”

Shit, he’s an imbecile. Why didn’t he say he was going to see Shane? It would be perfectly fucking normal! But what else can he say now? “Yes,” he lies. “I am on fourteen.”

“So you two probably have nice views, but I ended up all the way down here, somehow. Gosh, this is slow,” says Yuna Hollander, impatiently pressing the Close button until the doors finally obey. “He said the two of you were going for drinks, but he hasn’t answered my texts. So I thought I’d better check whether he wanted to come for dinner before I went alone. Looks like it’s a good thing I did.”

“Mmmm,” Ilya says noncommittally, and she looks at him as if he might be a little slow. Ilya honestly feels faint. What if he’d headed up five minutes earlier?! What if he already had Hollander against the wall, pants around his knees, cock in Ilya’s mouth, and this woman had knocked on the door? Nightmare! Like something out of a bad French farce!

The elevator stops at the fourteenth floor, and they both get out.

“My room is, ah, down here,” says Ilya, gesturing vaguely in the opposite direction of Yuna Hollander’s stance.

“Do you have plans? Are you meeting someone?”

“Ah. No,” says Ilya again, because he is apparently even stupider than Rivers and cannot think even one step ahead of this woman.

“Excellent, then you can come for dinner with Shane and me.”

“Oh. Oh, no, I don’t think—”

“Come on. I feel I owe you a bit of an apology. Thirty percent, you know. Shane was terribly irritated with me. I hope you weren’t offended. Do you like Japanese food?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, swerves around the corner, and raps smartly on a door. Ilya follows, hovering behind her so that Shane will see him and not contradict any of the litany of lies that Ilya has just accidentally spouted.

Shane opens the door. He is wearing very low-slung sweatpants, no shirt, and a greedy flush that turns into a full-blown red-faced panic attack the moment his brain realises who is standing at the door. He even halfway closes it in his mother’s face, and then opens it again when he sees Ilya widening his eyes in the universal sign for PLEASE HELP ME I AM IN BIG TROUBLE.

“Mom?” says Shane faintly.

“Look who I found.” Yuna kisses Shane on the cheek and bustles into his room. “What good timing, eh? You didn’t answer my messages, so I thought I’d come check to see if you’re hungry, and Ilya hasn’t eaten and doesn’t have any plans. So he’s going to come with us to dinner. My treat. But please put some clothes on. Goodness, look at the state of you. I’m just going to use your bathroom while you get dressed. I should’ve gone before I left my room, honestly.”

The bathroom lock clicks shut.

“Ilya?” says Shane. Ilya’s still standing in the doorway, regretfully fondling the lube in his pocket. He shrugs. He has been utterly bested, but he is fairly certain he is not the first man to find himself helpless in the face of Yuna Hollander.

“Fuck,” says Shane. “I’m so sorry. I told her not to come, but she’d already booked everything, and—” 

“No, is okay.”

“This is so embarrassing. Shit.”

“Is okay, Hollander.”

“I can tell her I don’t feel well.”

“No! Then she will make me go to dinner with her alone!” says Ilya.

“Probably, yup,” says Shane. He sighs. “Don’t stand there, then. Come on in.”

Ilya pushes the door shut behind himself and watches, gleefully, as Shane turns away and pushes his sweatpants down, fast, revealing that he had nothing on underneath (at least that part of Ilya’s fantasy came true) and madly scrambles into underwear and jeans.

“Oh my god,” Shane mutters as he rifles through his carry-on for a shirt. “I’m seriously so sorry. This is not what I—”

“All ready?” says Yuna, appearing like Ilya’s conscience through the bathroom door, and he rapidly averts his gaze away from her son’s strapping shoulders. “Goodness, Shane, what on earth are you—do hurry up.”

Shane finally gets his shoes on and grabs a jacket, and Yuna leads them downstairs, out into the street, and around the corner. Shane and Ilya follow her like chastened ducklings.

When they’re settled into a small, cosy booth and have ordered, she heaves a deep breath and smiles. “Right. This is nice. Finally, a chance to get to know you a little, Ilya. I have to tell you how much I—well, how much David and I—that’s Shane’s father—appreciated all you did for him over the summer. Truly.”

“Is okay,” says Ilya, trying hard to look like a responsible young man who did helpful things which did not include shoving his tongue in her son’s mouth, encouraging him to slaver over Ilya’s cock, or thrusting anything into his ass.

“Shane had a truly wonderful experience in Russia,” she says, not helping matters at all. “He came back so… so grown up, we thought. It was a really positive, formative summer. Thanks to you.”

Ilya risks a glance at Shane, who is staring at his water glass like a man longing for the sweet embrace of death.

“Travel is good,” says Ilya sagely. Under the table, he rubs his thigh against Shane’s, and Shane’s jaw clenches.

“Has it been good for you, too? How are you settling into your new team? Into America?”

Ilya nods. “Yes, team is good. Coach giving me good ice time.”

“You’re really making your mark.”

“Not last game with Montreal, was terrible.”

She smirks a little. “Yes, well, the Metros certainly had the best form on that night.”

“I am very embarrassed that you saw,” says Ilya, honestly, as it happens.

“We always watch your games. Not just the ones you play against Montreal, either, so don’t worry, we know that wasn’t your usual form. We feel like we know you a little—Shane came back with so many pictures of you!”

“You really watch? You really like hockey?”

“Oh gosh, yes. I’m a serious fan. We both are. Right, Shane?”

“I think it’s more you than Dad,” says Shane.

“Nonsense, he loves it. He always watches with me. David played hockey for McGill, Ilya.”

“Oh wow,” says Ilya, who has no idea where the fuck that is but it must be tiny, he’s never heard of that team.

The food arrives. It looks both healthy and delicious, two things that don’t always seem to go together in America.

Ilya concentrates on his meal while Shane and his mother discuss the day’s filming and their respective flights tomorrow. Shane is leaving early, at a similar time to Ilya; Yuna’s flight is later in the morning.

Ilya says, “My flight is five minutes after yours, Shane. Maybe we go to airport together?”

“Good idea,” says Yuna. “I’ve already booked Shane a cab, so you can just tag along. Pickup’s at five-thirty, I’m afraid.”

This is at least half an hour earlier than Ilya would’ve left. Maybe forty-five minutes. He smiles sideways at Shane, who is studiously not looking at him. “Mmm. Very early. But I know Shane likes to be punctual,” he says.

“Shut up,” says Shane. “I’ve never missed a flight, and I bet you have.”

“No! Never! Oh, wait—only once. Only once!”

“Well, if you’re not in the lobby at five-thirty, I’m leaving without you.”

Yuna looks shocked. “Shane!”

Ilya laughs. “No, is fine,” he assures her. “We make… is joke. Chirp.”

Finally, Shane looks at him. Dark eyes amused, settling. Finally, his leg pushes back against Ilya’s.

Yuna says thoughtfully, “So, Ilya, when will you get to go home next?”

“After season end. Depends, but we probably will not be in playoffs.”

“That’s a long time to be away from home.”

“Is fine,” says Ilya. It’s actually way more than fine, but he doesn’t want to admit the state of his family to this woman.

“You aren’t missing your family too much?”

Ilya shakes his head.

“And your friends? Have you made friends on the team?”

“Yes, there are some fun people. We go out, have fun.”

“Oh yes, Shane said he ran into you in a nightclub in Boston the other week.”

“Yes,” says Ilya, using every mote of his Slavic facial control as his mind unhelpfully presents images of the two of them panting silently at each other in a tiny cubicle.

“I was very impressed that you got him dancing in Moscow.”

“And Boston. He was dancing with very pretty girl.”

“Oh, really Shane? I didn’t hear that part of the story!”

“There’s no story,” says Shane.

“Well, you’ve got to write your own story, I guess. Could you help Shane with that, Ilya? He’s not always very confident with girls, even though he doesn’t have any trouble getting them to notice him.”

“Mom, Jesus, please.”

“I’m just saying, Ilya looks like he’s got the confidence that girls like.”

“Ilya has way too much confidence with girls, actually,” says Shane in a tone that Ilya could only describe as bitchy, but Ilya probably deserves it.

“Oh, you can’t have too much confidence. You should go out with Ilya more. You could learn from it.”

Shane puts his head in his hands. This is not like any mother-son relationship Ilya is familiar with. It’s extremely entertaining. 

Ilya says, evilly, “Do not worry, Mrs Hollander. Shane is very confident when he wants to be.”

“Really,” she says, eyes lighting up.

“Really. Very.”

“This is hideous,” says Shane, glaring at them both. “Please stop.”

Yuna laughs, reaching across the table and patting Shane’s hand, apologising to him. “I’m sorry. I’m awful, I know. But it really is so nice to finally meet you, Ilya. Oh! Since you don’t have any family to spend the holidays with, maybe you’d like to come up and stay with us, with Shane, at Christmas?”

Ilya’s momentarily silent, his mind going back to when Shane asked about Christmas. Before he can say anything, Shane says in a pained voice, “No, Mom. Ilya already has plans. With his captain.”

“Oh, Jed Paulson?”

“Yes,” says Ilya.

“That’s nice. He seems like a good guy. I’m glad you won’t be alone for the holidays. But the offer’s there any time. We’d love to repay some of the hospitality you showed Shane. You really were so good to him. Shane loved your family dacha. He said it was tremendously relaxing.”

Ilya keeps his face solemn through sheer, gargantuan willpower. Men have been given medals for less effort than he is currently exhibiting. He nods and pushes his thigh hard against Shane’s. “Yes, very relaxing. Shane looked very happy there.”

“He had a wonderful time,” says Yuna.

“Wow, I am so tired,” says Shane, too loudly. “I really—um, dinner was great, thanks Mom, but it’s been a long day and the flight’s early and I—”

“Yes,” says Ilya. “I want bed, too. Long day.”

He smiles beatifically at Yuna Hollander. Under the table, he runs his hand up Shane’s admirable thigh. Shane doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move, and yet manages to radiate a clear promise of homicide. It’s delightful.

The kisses start the moment the elevator door closes, and it begins to shudder upwards. Risky, stupid, impossible to resist. When the hotel room door closes, Ilya pushes Shane back against it, licking at his salty mouth as he undoes Shane’s pants, pushing them down and then dropping to his knees.

“Fuck, Ilya,” says Shane. “Oh god, oh please!”

Five intensely delightful minutes later, Ilya gets to his feet, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“One,” he says, with a wink, and walks backward to the bed, beckoning. 

Chapter End Notes

Pic is an old one but was too fitting not to include.

(In other news I finished the whole fic this weekend and it is now in the capable hands of my brilliant beta. Yay!!)

(I also made myself cry while writing the last chapter which I think is a good sign.)

(Don't worry though, HEA all the way baby)

Chapter 6: In Which Ilya Rozanov Works Hard on His Reputation, Both Sporting and Romantic

Chapter Notes

Recap: After their summer fling at the English language intensive hockey camp in Moscow, Shane and Ilya are now in America and Canada, playing for the NHL and stealing time together when they can. Feelings are intense, although they both reluctantly understand the limits of what this relationship can be. Knowing that Ilya's under pressure to send money home, Shane came up with a plan to include him in a CCM endorsement shoot that his mom set up. This opportunity was both agonising (Yuna! In the elevator! Making them both come to dinner with her!) and delightful (after all the agony).

Blessings upon the head of Strangeredlantern who is the dearest beta in the whole world. I can't believe I'm so lucky as to have someone half a world away who will, at the drop of a hat, suddenly edit nearly five thousand words. And keep doing that for over two fucking years. Literally hundreds and hundreds of thousands of words, that all go out with someone else's name on them. Betas, you are wondrous and beloved. Especially YOU, Mrs Lantern. XXX

ILYA

At some unholy hour of the morning, Ilya gently disentangles himself from warm, clutching limbs. He has had exactly no sleep and does not regret a single wakeful moment, but now he really does need to get out of here before the hotel starts stirring around them. He feels around on the floor in the dark, locating his abandoned clothes by hand until there’s a sound of bedclothes moving and the bedside light clicks on. Shane squints down at him, hair in wild disarray.

“Sorry,” Ilya whispers. “Did not mean to wake you.”

“Are you going?”

“Yes. Is very late. Or early. Whatever.”

Shane pushes the bedding aside and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Warm, solid, naked, lovely. Ilya looks up at him and groans.

“Not fair,” he says, and Shane looks smug.

“Creeping out without saying goodbye isn’t fair, either.”

“We will be together in cab in…” Ilya checks his watch. “One hour. You will not miss me too much.”

“Half an hour in a cab, and then I won’t see you for ages.”

“That is what we think last time, but you are very sneaky.” Ilya gets to his feet, still entirely unclothed, and Shane holds out his arms. Come here.

Ilya cradles Shane’s head against his belly, stroking his hair, and Shane winds his arms around Ilya’s hips, rocking gently backward and forward. His lips purse against Ilya’s abdomen.

After a moment, Shane says, “Yeah, you’re right, you need to go shower.”

Ilya barks a laugh. Shane is so unfiltered when he’s relaxed. “Oh, I think we have romantic moment, but you say I smell bad?”

“No.” Shane looks up at him. “You smell incredible. But I don’t want other people to know… You know.”

“You don’t want other people to know that I made Montreal’s next great center come three times last night?”

“Something like that,” says Shane. He smiles, sleepy and soft. “Hey, wait. Did you say romantic?”

“I don’t think so,” says Ilya. “Would be very big word for stupid Russian.” His heart’s thumping. He did say it. It just fell out, without asking his brain’s permission.

“Okay,” says Shane, letting it go.

But they both know he said it. And Ilya doesn’t want to take it back, even though he should. He kisses Shane softly, dresses fast, and makes his escape.

Things are definitely becoming romantic in Ilya’s heart, though, and that’s problematic.

Shane and Ilya text almost every day. They talk regularly, and Shane doesn’t even schedule phone calls anymore. He just calls. The team teases Ilya for his bromance, but he tells himself the more it’s visible in plain sight, the less anyone will read into it.

He still goes out with the guys. He’s still an excellent wingman. He still flirts and dances and touches and enjoys soft, greedy kisses on the dance floor. But he can’t quite bring himself to take it further than that with any of them, and at a certain point, the guys start to notice. The comments start. Ilya knows he’s going to have to shut it down soon, somehow.

But he doesn’t want to. Seeing Shane’s name light up on his phone does something Pavlovian to him now. Like, the smile starts before he even sees the message or hears his voice. All that shit Rivers was spouting about his cousin’s insider knowledge and how Shane is so antisocial and standoffish is desperate bullshit; or maybe it’s true, but Ilya is somehow the exception for whom Shane breaks his rule. This is Ilya’s preferred theory, and it makes him pretty fucking happy. Makes him feel special, which is pathetic, but he can’t help it.

A week before Christmas, after an easily won home game against Buffalo, the locker room is cheerful and celebratory. Ilya’s been playing well (possibly because he’s getting so much more sleep, what with the unexpected reduction in fucking) and is basking in all the congratulations for his two goals (one of them a stunning last-minute cherry on top) and three excellent assists. Paulie even drags him out to the post-game media conference, showing him off, and Ilya revels in that too. He loves teasing the reporters, playing up the Ilya Rozanov Cocky Russian Asshole Persona (TM), and they love him back. He’s always good for an outrageous soundbite, and he’ll take off his shirt at the drop of a hat. TV gold!

When he eventually returns to the locker room, half the team’s left already, but Ilya’s posse are watching ESPN in the corner. They’re already changed and getting impatient.

Marly says, “Hurry the fuck up, Roz, Jesus, how long did you yap on?”

“Patience, boychiks, patience.” Ilya heads for the showers and washes rapidly (partly because it is hard to shower currently without imagining Shane Hollander backed against the tiles, head thrown back in ecstasy, thighs trembling, cock halfway down Ilya’s throat—it’s best to get in and out as fast as he can before things get out of hand) and he’s just turned off the water when Marly yells, “Yo, Roz, your boy Hollander’s on!”

Towel around his hips, Ilya joins the group by the wall-mounted TV. Shane, perfectly groomed in his game-day suit, is nodding solemnly into the camera, four microphones in his face.

“You and Ilya Rozanov, this season’s best-known rookies, both had good games tonight. What do you think the success you two are having tells us about being drafted straight into the NHL? Do you think it was too much, not having another development year?”

Shane smiles politely. “I think you just answered your own question. We’re both doing pretty well, thanks. But I guess it comes down to a case-by-case situation. Team managers and coaches have to develop each player in the way that best suits that person. That’s their job, and they’re pretty good at it.”

Rivers groans. “God, he’s like a corporate hockey robot. I don’t get it, Roz, like how the fuck can you be tight with that guy?”

“Don’t be blue, Danube. I have good friends who are dipshits, too,” says Ilya, leaning forward and rubbing his wet curls against River’s face, which immediately starts a fight, and they’re so busy wrestling and yelling that they miss quite a lot of Shane’s interview until Jaakola shouts, “Hey! Hey! They’re talking about Roz’s ad!”

Ilya releases Rivers from his headlock and catches several seconds of himself and Hollander looking over their shoulders in intense slow-mo before the slogan rolls across the screen. World-class gear for world-class players.

“One world-class player maybe, and one world-class asshat,” grumbles Rivers, but Ilya shushes him as Shane comes on again, blushing as if he’s just been shown the ad too.

“So let’s be honest, Shane—how much is this friendship between you two manufactured for exactly this kind of promotional deal?”

“Not at all,” says Shane, one eyebrow doing a tiny furrow before he gets it under control and reverts to polite perfection. “Rozanov and I keep in contact, for sure. It was a great opportunity to do this promotion together. He’s a great player. Awesome to watch.”

“You’re such different players, though.”

“Not that different,” says Shane. “We both get the points, and that’s what matters.”

“But you seem to have quite different personalities. Different approaches, is that fair to say?”

“I guess,” says Shane. “You don’t have to be the same to be good friends.”

“Opposites attract,” says another reporter, and there’s laughter. Shane smiles tightly. Ilya knows that look; it’s incipient panic.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says.

“Ohhhh,” croons Rivers, tugging evilly at Ilya’s towel. Ilya grips it tight and swats at him. “Opposites attract. That’s why chaos demon Roz loves his pretty hockey robot so much.”

“Blyat, have you never had a fucking friend?” says Ilya. “Is this why you are so confused by me and Hollander? Is sad. Volga, you will make me cry for you.”

“Who is making my Ilyushka cry?” says a loud, laughter-laced female voice. As one, the remainder of the team turn towards the half-open door, just as a long-nailed hand appears in the gap and waves cheekily. “Are you decent, gentlemen? Okay for a visitor?”

“Who the fuck,” says Marly, but Ilya knows who it is. He strides over and throws the door open.

“Sveta!”

He pulls her into a swinging hug, and she lifts her feet from the floor, letting him manhandle her into the room.

The others gape. Ilya puts her down and says proudly, “Boys, this is Svetlana Vetrova. Sergey Vetrov’s daughter. She was part of the Raiders when she was a kid. This is how she knows where is our locker room.”

“Hello!” says Svetlana brightly. “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to surprise Ilya. Excellent match tonight.”

Several hellos echo back at her. It is absolutely pathetic to watch the faces of his friends right now. Marleau will dribble if he’s not careful. Rivers looks like he might be having an aneurysm, but is trying to look cool while he does it (failing utterly). Connors’ eyes are literally bulging. Sveta has this effect on men, and it’s tragic to witness.

“Is Victor here?” she asks, peering around. “That save from Braunias was spectacular.”

“He, uh, left already,” says Marleau, swallowing.

“Oh. A pity. Please pass on my admiration. It’s Cliff, yes? Cliff Marleau? Wonderful assist to Ilya’s second goal. I can see why he enjoys playing with you so much.”

Oh, Marly. His little face! He might spontaneously combust with joy. They crowd closer as Svetlana speaks to them all in turn, complimenting, joking, and admiring. It’s very impressive and rather disgusting. She was born to be a saleswoman. There is no man alive that she can’t wrap around her little finger.

“Do you, uh, live in Boston?” says Connors shyly.

“Just visiting my Ilya. I travel a lot for work. Sales.”

“What sort of sales?”

“High-end vehicles. I represent collectors, mostly.”

“Wow, that’s fascinating, do you—”

Ilya interrupts. “Yes, yes, Svetlana is fascinating. I will find you more fascinating, Sveta my love, when I have pants on. So maybe you could…?” He flicks his fingers at her.

“Sorry about him,” says Marly, taking Sveta by the elbow. “He’s an ass. Why don’t we wait outside while he sorts himself out, and then perhaps you’d like to come with us? We’re heading into town, and it would be really great if you could come too.”

Jaakola hangs back, staring wide-eyed at the door as they all exit.

“Fuck, Roz, who is that?”

“Old friend,” says Ilya, dressing as fast as he can so he can go and rescue poor Svetlana from the salivating mob of his mates.

“So, ahh… not, like, your girlfriend or anything?”

“Coke,” says Ilya warningly. “No.”

“But if—”

“No. It will be too embarrassing to watch you even try. Hands off, you hear me?”

Jaakola pulls a disgruntled face and leaves.

They all give it a try, of course, but Sveta is much too smart to fall for any of their nonsense. She reads each one of them like a book and, in small, subtle ways, makes each of them feel like her special chosen friend. Marly, she stands close to and looks up at him as if she’s seeking protection. Rivers gets dirty jokes and high fives. Jaakola gets winks and sly comments about Americans, one European to another, and he falls for it even though Finns generally detest Russians. Connors gets inaudible, whispered comments right in his earhole that wreathe him in blushes and smiles.

Oh, Svetlana Anastasia Sergeevna Vetrova. It’s a good thing she doesn’t have evil megalomaniac ambitions, or Ilya’s certain she could rule the entire planet. He lets her weave her magic for a while, leaning back on the bar and watching the melting puddle of his friends’ dignity, and then drags her onto the dance floor.

“You are very evil,” he yells at her in Russian, “and I love you very much.”

“Evil?! I was making friends!”

“You were manipulating helpless lesser beings.”

She laughs, wide and toothy. “Did you like your surprise, though?”

“Very much. Are you here for long?”

“Couple of nights.”

“Want to stay with me?”

“Of course! I already left my suitcase at your house.”

“You broke in?!”

“Ilyushka, you showed me where you hide your spare key, remember?”

He doesn’t remember, but he was very drunk last time they went out. The song changes to something slower. He pulls her close, kisses her forehead, and buries his face in the fragrant cloud of her hair.

They’ve shared many beds over the years. In some, they kissed, touched, and experimented. In some, they fucked, having tried briefly to be a couple until their first big argument left them both so bruised and lonely that Sveta said it was too dangerous, and she’d never risk losing their friendship again.

Now they’re curled up in Ilya’s bed, having late-night popcorn (dancing always makes Sveta hungry) and watching highlights of all tonight’s games. Ilya’s interview comes on, and Sveta laughs.

“You’re so vain. My god, the ego!”

“What? I did play a god-tier game.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that, though.”

Ilya blows a raspberry. He has no time for false modesty.

Talking of which, they segue into Hollander’s interview.

“Oh! Oh look at him!” Sveta says, soft-eyed. “He’s adorable. Sincere. Humble. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Shane would never call himself god-tier.”

“No, but he thinks it. So he’s the liar, and I’m at least telling the truth.”

“He does not think that. Honestly, you think everyone’s as egotistical as you are.”

“He fucking does, trust me.”

“Oh, and how would you know?”

Ilya shrugs. Here in the comfort of his own home, his own bed, and the company of his very best and oldest friend, he feels an unfamiliar urge. A desire for honesty on a topic that he has been very, very dishonest about, even to himself.

“I, ah. I know him quite well,” he says, and risks a meaningful glance.

“Quite well?”

“Yeah.”

“How well?”

“Quite… intimately.”

Sveta’s huge eyes get even huger.

“Motherfucker,” she whispers. “You didn’t?”

“We did.”

“Back in…?” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder, back towards the past, back towards Russia, and Ilya nods, lifting his eyebrows suggestively. He can feel a wicked, happy smile emerging.

“Oh my god. Oh my god! And since then, have you… Do you still see him?”

“Yes.”

She sits up, her face a mask of shock. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you. And you didn’t tell me?” Her palm comes down hard on Ilya’s bare thigh, and he yelps.

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I? Even though I shouldn’t? I haven't even asked him about telling you. So don't say a word to him. Not a word, okay?”

“Of course. I promise. Who else knows?”

“Literally nobody, so if anybody does find out, I’ll know it was you, Vetrova.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know I’d never. But—but—” She claps her hands to her cheeks, reveling in this astonishing piece of gossip. “But how? When?”

“That night in Moscow when we went to the club with you.”

“Ilya, no! He was really fucking drunk that night! You can’t let—”

“I know! I didn’t do anything! He kissed me! And I was a perfect saint! I told him no, said we’d see how he felt in the morning, and then…” He shrugs.

“I am… I have no words,” says Svetlana, turning back to the TV, where Shane’s still looking like The Perfect Hockey Ambassador and saying all the right things. “I mean, he’s just so… he’s so pretty, and so nice, and so not like your type.”

“I’m not going to kiss and tell, but let’s just say there’s a lot more to him than just that guy,” says Ilya, gesturing at the TV.

“Wow. WOW.” Svetlana shakes her head. “And… so you’re still…?”

“It’s hard to find time, but yeah. When we can. That CCM shoot?” Ilya tells her the story, and she falls back on the pillows, laughing, remembering his rage about the seventy-thirty split proposal.

“And you were so angry because you thought—but you really wanted to go, because—and he—oh, Ilya, you goddamn idiot! This is wonderful. Oh my god, I’ll never be able to watch that ad again. So you filmed that and then you…?” She dissolves into delighted giggles.

Ilya is not about to tell her anything about that. He says, “Actually, then I had dinner with him and his mother. Who’s also his agent. Mrs Seventy Thirty.”

“His mother?”

“Mmm.”

She snuggles up close. “That was brave of him. So she doesn't know?”

“Christ, no.”

“No to you-and-him? Or no to him being queer?”

“No to all of it.”

“Hmm. Okay. So if he hasn’t come out to them, it’s not, like, a serious thing between you two?”

Ilya makes the rookie mistake of not immediately scoffing at the mere idea, and once he’s been silent for two seconds, there’s really no point in saying anything at all, so he doesn’t, and the longer the silence drags on, the more serious his answer seems to be, until Sveta says, “Oh. Oh, dearest. That’s difficult.” 

“It’s not ideal, that’s for sure.”

She kisses his cheek and strokes his hair. “Oh, my poor love. I saw so many pap pictures of you with all those random women, and I thought you were having the time of your life. But you weren’t, were you.”

“I wasn’t exactly suffering,” says Ilya, like the curmudgeon he fears he may one day become. Svetlana makes a dismissive noise.

“You really do like him, don’t you. I could see it the first time I saw you two together. I saw the way you looked at him in the club.”

“Yeah, because that shirt looked fucking good.”

“The Cavalli?”

“It was a dupe. But yes.”

“I mean, yes, it did look good. But that’s beside the point. I could see it on your face.”

Ilya sighs heavily. “Don’t say that. I don’t want anyone to see it on my face. It’s not… We can’t.”

She tuts and turns off the television. “No. It’s an unforgiving sport,” she says. “And there’s your visa to worry about.”

“And also, when I go back to Russia…”

“Mmm.”

They’re silent for a while. Ilya turns off the bedside lamp. “Anyway,” he says into the dark, “now you know.”

“Thank you. For telling me. Trusting me. You can trust me, you know.”

“Always could,” says Ilya, finding her small hand in the dark and bringing her knuckles to his lips.

“And… and, listen. Lots of people saw us together tonight. I’ll be here for a couple more days. Let’s hang out, and it could be useful, right?”

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying. I’m saying, if you have a girl on your arm, nobody will think twice about the boy you spend time with.”

Something hot and grateful prickles behind Ilya’s eyelids. She’s right. And Shane knows Sveta. Shane will know that Ilya isn’t fucking a line of strangers.

“But how will you meet someone if people think you’re involved with me?” he says in a low voice.

“Darling, if I meet someone I’m really interested in, I’ll cheat on you, don’t worry.”

“What! Cheating whore.”

“Better a cheating whore than a lovesick fag.”

He leans over, kissing her cheek. “I love you, Sveta.”

“Love you too, Ilyushka.”

SHANE

They’re sitting at the table, surrounded by the remnants of a great Christmas brunch, when Ilya calls. Shane’s aunt, Sarah, raises judgmental eyebrows when he fishes his phone out of his pocket and says, “Um, sorry, excuse me, just need to take this.”

Shane’s glad Ilya couldn’t come for Christmas. His dad’s big sister is great, but very old-school, and her new husband is the definition of boring. He doesn’t like any sports at all. Literally none! It’s not normal. Ilya would’ve been bored to death; he would’ve hated it. It’s a good thing he didn’t come.

He wanders out into the lounge, where they won’t be able to overhear him, before he answers. “Hey! Merry Christmas!”

“You too, Hollander. Having a good day?”

“Yeah, for sure. Are you at Paulson’s?”

“Later. Not yet.”

“Oh, cool. Who else is going?”

“Jaakola. Duval. Rivers, I think.”

“Rivers isn’t an international orphan, he’s from fucking Boise.”

“He’s, what do you call it, honorary orphan.”

Shane giggles. Ilya’s English is so good now. It’s hard to imagine that only six months ago he couldn’t even explain that he was heading for the smoking zone in the airport. His accent is still super Russian, though, and Shane hopes he doesn’t ever lose that. It’s just so fucking sexy.

“So, you are not busy now?” says Ilya, in the tone of someone who is concocting a plan.

“Um. Not really. We just ate. My aunt’s here, but… yeah, no, not really. Why?”

“I got present. New iPhone.”

Dots connect themselves in Shane’s mind, blip blip blipblipblip. Shane got the new iPhone 4 after he got back from Russia, and more than once he’s mentioned the FaceTime app to Ilya. Casually, of course. But definitely with a secret agenda. He tries to stay nonchalant. “Oh, nice, who from?”

“This guy Ilya Rozanov, amazing hockey player, super generous, you know him?”

Shane’s about to make some rude comment about how that’s not how Christmas works, but he manages to stop himself in time. Who else is going to buy Ilya a Christmas present? (Shane thought long and hard about getting him something, but then decided it would be weird. He bought him something anyway, a really nice pure wool toque that he’d look amazing in, but he just wrapped it and put it away in the cupboard, ready to courier it overnight if anything turned up from Ilya for him. But nothing did, so he didn’t.)

Instead he says, “Oh, yeah, that Rozanov guy. The mouthy one with the big ego.”

“Da, that’s him. Anyway, I have a new phone. Thinking maybe try this FaceTime thing with my good friend Shane Hollander, who also has a fancy iPhone.”

“Yeah, let's,” says Shane, far too fast and with no cool whatsoever. “Yeah, sure, hang up and I’ll FaceTime you.”

“Okay,” says Ilya, and hangs up.

Striding back through the dining room, Shane says, “Hey, sorry everyone, that was my Russian friend. He’s stuck in Boston for Christmas, but he wanted to FaceTime. I’ll just…” He gestures to the stairs.

“Okay, honey, but don’t be too long,” says his mother. “Say Merry Christmas from us.”

“Do they have Christmas in Russia?” asks Sarah’s idiot new husband, as Shane takes the stairs two at a time.

He closes the door of his room and then, on impulse, locks it. There was something in Ilya’s voice that was full of mischief. He sits cross-legged on his bed and opens FaceTime.

Ilya answers and immediately pulls the phone back to show himself, shirtless, wearing a Santa hat. “Merry Christmas,” he says, with a salacious wink.

He is ludicrously handsome. It’s not even fair. His hair’s growing long, a wild halo of curls escaping from beneath the hat’s white fur. Shane swallows and tries to look stern. “I could’ve been downstairs with family, idiot! What if someone saw!”

“I think no. You took too long to call. You went somewhere quiet,” says Ilya, whose perspicacity is borderline irritating sometimes. “Is that your bedroom?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Show me.”

After a brief argument, Shane concedes and gives shirtless Ilya a quick tour of his boyhood bedroom. Ilya won’t let him leave the trophy shelf until he’s gone through every single freaking one and told him what it’s for.

“Guess you are quite good at hockey, hey?” says Ilya, once Shane’s settled back on the bed.

“Not bad,” says Shane.

“God-tier.”

Shane barks with laughter at the reference. “Holy fuck, that clip got played so many times. The team hates you for that.”

“For saying I am god-tier? Or being god-tier?”

“Your vanity is insane.”

Ilya makes a dismissive gesture. “Is not vain if true. Anyway. You want your Christmas present?”

“What’s my—” Shane starts to say, but then the camera starts to track down Ilya’s chest. It lingers for a while while he traces circles around a nipple, then follows his hand down the center of his body, where the hairs start to get darker and arrow downwards, and—

Shane slams the phone face down on his bed.

“Where did you go?” says a tinny, plaintive voice. “Hollander? Shane?”

Shane lies back, face burning. He picks up the phone, and Ilya’s face is back. Somehow it looks different now that Shane knows Ilya is buck-fucking-naked. The Santa hat is even more funny and even more terrible.

“Are you crazy?” he hisses, trying really hard not to laugh. “I’ve got a house full of fucking relatives. I can literally hear them laughing from here.”

“Mmm, you should be quiet then. Have you got headphones? No family here. I might get noisy,” says Ilya.

“I—I can’t—” says Shane, and then he makes a strangled noise and grabs his headphones, shoving the jack into his phone and the buds into his ears. Ilya smiles, hideously smug and even more disgustingly sexy.

“So, where were we…” Ilya says. His phone recommences its downward journey.

Shane brings the phone close to his face so as not to miss out on any details, but it gets even blurrier. Fuck. Unthinking, he grabs his reading glasses from the bedside table and puts them on.

The picture clarifies, stutters, then returns to Ilya’s face yet again. He’s staring, riveted.

“You have glasses?”

“Yes, fuck, whatever,” says Shane crossly, taking them off again. Jesus, he was just trying to enjoy this stupid… Christmas present. But Ilya yelps, shakes his head so hard that the bobble on his hat swings around and hits him on the cheek.

“Put them back on!”

“No, you’ll just—”

“Please. Please, Hollander. Is hot. Is very hot.”

Shane’s first instinct is to think he’s still being teased, but Ilya’s biting his lip, and his cheeks have gone all rosy. Wow. Okay, apparently the glasses are a hit. He complies.

“Take off your sweater,” says Ilya.

“No. I can’t. Seriously, someone might come. Just… just give me my present,” says Shane.

“You just want to watch me?”

“Yeah. Yes. Yes please.”

“Is not present if you don’t get to come too.”

“Oh, I will. I promise I will. Just later. Come on, do it.”

Holy shit, it’s a good thing he grabbed the headphones. Over the next ten minutes, Ilya proceeds to shamelessly pleasure himself, including a running commentary about all the things he’s thinking about while he does it. Shane in Moscow. Shane kissing him the first time. I did not know, Hollander, what a dirty mind you have. Was so good to find out. The frantic risks of those last few weeks in the team hotel. Remember in the elevator and then it stops, here is Garanin and Mityaev and you, fuck, you have this look on your face like you can’t even remember where you are and your shirt all untucked and we get to ground floor and you say oh i forgot my notebook and we go back and, ugh, fuck, your mouth so we are late but gospodi, Hollander—Shane—when you look up at me with my cock in your mouth it’s just… Are you touching yourself?

“Only a little,” says Shane. It’s literally not possible to leave himself alone with this vision in front of him, and that voice piped straight into his brain. He can hardly breathe. 

Ilya’s an inventive cameraman; it’s not all dick. He regularly extends his long arm and gives a full-body shot, and helpless saliva spurts under Shane’s tongue. He can almost feel the heft of silky flesh in his mouth, simultaneously thrilling and soothing.

More, breathes Ilya, bringing the phone close to his mouth. More, Shane. Stroke your pretty cock for me. Is it wet? I think is wet. Remember in Balashikha when you ask, please fuck me Ilya? The phone travels back down, where Ilya’s hand is speeding, greedy. The sounds in Shane’s ears become less nostalgic travelogue, more home porno. Was so good. Unh. Unh, fuck. The way you took my fingers, begged for more. You there with your legs wide, showing me, letting me, taking me, fuck, unh, yeah. F-fuck, Shane, you, you, you, fuck!

Shane can’t speak. Can’t do anything but stare and clutch at his poor, desperate cock as Ilya comes all over his gorgeous belly. Spurting and spurting, over and over.

He pans back up over his heaving chest, showing the long column of his neck, thrown back in blissful release, and then his face is back. Gorgeous, glowing, satisfied. 

“Merry Christmas, Shane,” he says sweetly, blows a kiss, and hangs up.

Chapter 7: In Which Shane Hollander Spins a Web of Lies and Finds Out They Are Rather Sticky

Chapter Notes

Recap: After their summer fling at the English language intensive hockey camp in Moscow, Shane and Ilya are now in America and Canada, playing for the NHL and stealing time together when they can. Feelings are intense, although they both reluctantly understand the limits of what this relationship can be. Knowing that Ilya's under pressure to send money home, Shane came up with a plan to include him in a CCM endorsement shoot. Anyway things are going well, and although they spent Christmas apart Ilya came up with a very inventive Christmas present. We pick up where that left off.

FYI to WIP readers: I'm going to post all the remaining chapters today. It's all complete and the next idea has already taken root in my mind so I'm just gonna throw this one out there. Keep reading one a week if you want! Finish it off if you want! It's all good. Thank you so much for being here xxxx

Caveat lector, beloved beta is doing Real Life Things this weekend but I have tried to wear my Strangeredlantern glasses and look for the things she always finds :)

SHANE

When Ilya hangs up, Shane lies on his bed for several minutes vacillating between jerking off or being a nice civilised person and going back down to the family Christmas celebrations. He’s still hard and he’s pretty sure his face is purest beetroot after what he just saw. He closes his eyes and Ilya Rozanov’s naked, masturbating self appears to have become imprinted on the back of his eyelids. The guy is crazy. It’s wonderful.

It’s no good, he’s gonna have to rub one out quickly. He reaches for a tissue and is just unbuttoning his pants when his mother’s voice comes floating upstairs.

“Shane! Sarah and Steven are leaving! Are you still on the phone? Come say goodbye!”

Oh god, fuck. No. No, he can’t do this now, what the hell is wrong with him? He lurches off the bed, reassembling himself. Leaning over the banister he calls, “Bye, Sarah! Bye Steven, thanks for the socks, guys, really appreciate them, enjoy the rest of your day!”

His relatives appear at the bottom of the stairs, peering up. Sarah says, “Aren’t you coming down to give me a hug?”

Shane does not trust the state of his crotch right now. “No, sorry, still on this call. He’s, you know, a long way from home. Bit homesick I think maybe. So good to see you guys! Bye!”

He sits on the ottoman by the landing window and waves as they go to their car, silent phone clasped mendaciously to his ear. 

After a while he hears his parents come back in and start tidying the kitchen. They’ll be getting on with dinner prep soon, just for the three of them. It’s a good Christmas this year, not too many relatives around. His mother’s side have all gone to see her brother’s family in Vancouver, but Shane really didn’t have the time to do that—or that was the excuse they used. He’s only got three days off, and didn’t want to spend them in Christmas travel. Actually, he prefers a small Christmas, and he thinks his parents do too. The three of them are a pretty tight unit. They’ll have a big dinner later and play cards or maybe watch a movie and it’ll be simple. Easy. Relaxed.

Boring, he hears in Ilya’s voice, but it sounds teasing. Affectionate.

A quick trip to the bathroom confirms that Ilya’s present did leave Shane looking a little rattled, but he smooths everything out, gives himself a You can do it! thumbs up in the mirror, and heads back downstairs.

Halfway down the staircase, he can hear his parents talking in the kitchen; suddenly he catches the word Rozanov and freezes. He retreats a few steps, treading light and careful, heart suddenly thumping. He doesn’t usually eavesdrop, that’s not him, but this time he’s going to make an exception.

His father’s lower rumble is hard to make out over the sounds of crockery being stacked in the dishwasher. Shane closes his eyes, as if that'll improve his hearing, and weirdly it does. The rumble clarifies itself into “… pleased that he’s made a friend, surely, Yuna.”

“You’re making it sound like he doesn’t have friends. Of course he does. We met Hayden and his wife, and I think he still keeps in touch with Michael, the goalie from juniors. And maybe Jessica. She’s a lovely girl.”

“I don’t think he’s talked to her for a while. Nor Michael. And Hayden, well, he seems like a nice guy, but you’ve got to admit he seems to be in a slightly different life stage to Shane.”

His mother sighs. “True.”

“You’d have a conniption if Shane decided to get married that young.”

A giggle confirms this.

“So… surely this Rozanov thing is a good development?”

The tap starts running. After a moment, his mother says: “I know, but there’s just something… odd about him. The way he looks at Shane. And you must’ve seen how Shane lit up when he got that call today. He adores that boy. Look at all the money he gave away, just to do that shoot together.”

“Don’t worry about that. Shane’s not going to have money problems, Yuna.”

“No, but the principle.”

“Take a step back, honey. You said there’s something odd about Rozanov? Odd how?”

“I don’t know. He’s perfectly polite, and he makes Shane laugh. They tease each other, banter, you know, and that’s lovely to see.  But his facial expression could be ever so blank when he thought I was watching, and then I’d catch him staring at Shane with this intense sort of… focus? Concentration?”

“Well, he’s Russian. Everything’s happening in another language. I guess I’d have to focus pretty hard in that situation, too.”

“Stop making excuses and listen to your wife’s instincts, will you?”

“Alright, alright. What are your instincts saying, then?”

Dishes clank. His mother likes to choose her words carefully when she’s put on the spot like this. Eventually she says, “My instincts are saying that Shane likes Ilya Rozanov an awful lot. I mean I get it, he’s extremely charismatic. You’ve seen him play, and you know how much Shane idolises good players. And it’s obvious that he’s extremely taken with him.”

Shane wants to melt into the stairs.

“And that’s a problem?” says his dad softly.

“Maybe. If it’s reciprocated. Or even if it’s not. I’m just… I get the sense that he could hurt our boy. Badly.”

“Well. We won’t let that happen. Maybe we should have a word with Shane?”

“Absolutely not, David, good Lord.”

“Okay, well, then I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just saying—”

Shane’s had enough. He doesn’t want to know what his mom is saying, because it’s obviously heading towards there is something weird going on with Shane and his new Russian best friend. “Oh no,” he says loudly, bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve come help with the dishes. Go sit down, Mom, I’ll finish that.”

“Oh hey, sweetie,” she says, turning smoothly, smiling like she hasn’t just been saying the most mortifying things about him. “That’s okay, it’s nearly done. Anyone fancy a cup of coffee and some cribbage?”

The subject of Ilya doesn’t come up again until much later in the afternoon, when they're sitting in front of the fire around the triangular, three-handed cribbage board that Shane made for Mother’s Day when he was eleven. The lines of peg-holes are crooked and it’s smooth with handling and use. Half the pegs he whittled have broken or been lost, so they mostly use matchsticks now. Crib’s a weird, old-fashioned game but it’s got a pleasing rhythm and a nice mixture of luck and cunning math that Shane’s always liked. Sitting here in the gathering dark, with the fire roaring and fantastic cooking smells emerging from the kitchen, it’s incredibly cosy and nice.

What’s even nicer is Shane’s hand. He counts his points as he lays it down. “Fifteen-two, fifteen-four, fifteen-six, fifteen-eight, two for a pair is ten, eleven-twelve-thirteen, fourteen-fifteen-sixteen, and one for His Knob,” he rattles off, moving his rear peg seventeen steps ahead.

“Ouch,” says Dad.

“Yeah, that nine was real helpful.”

His father gathers up the cards and starts shuffling.

“So how is Ilya?” says Mom, mild as you please. “Is he having a good Christmas?”

“Fine,” says Shane.

“That was nice of him to call you. To FaceTime you, rather.”

“Yeah. He got a new phone.”

“Amazing technology,” says Dad. “Is it better than Skype, though?”

“Easier, I guess? Like you don’t need a separate account?” But Shane doesn’t let this technological side-quest derail him. He’s been preparing a very particular line of defence, ever since this morning’s overheard conversation. He drags out his phone and starts searching, while he says, “He’s been spending quite a bit of time with his friend Svetlana. I met her in Moscow, remember?”

“Oh yes. When you went clubbing.” Mom was unreasonably pleased about that. Shane hadn’t mentioned the vodka, the nipple-exposing shirt, or the drunken kisses with a fellow hockey player in a shared bed, any one of which would have made her quite a lot less pleased. “Here,” he says, locating the picture on a Raiders’ fan's Facebook page, and waggling the phone at his parents. “That’s Svetlana.”

It’s Svetlana and Ilya, to be more precise, all tangled together on a sofa in what looks like the VIP area of a club. It’s dark but the photo’s taken with flash and Ilya’s skin is very pale, washed out; it’s very clear that his face is nuzzled right into her neck, and her head’s thrown back in smiling pleasure.

“There’s another one,” says Shane, and flicks to a snap of them on the dance floor. Svetlana’s backed up against Ilya, without a millimetre of space between them, and he’s got one big hand splayed wide over her bare abdomen.

“Very pretty,” says his mother.

“So…” His dad flashes a sideways glance at Mom, but she doesn’t catch it. “So she’s his girlfriend?”

“Not sure,” says Shane vaguely. “But she definitely has been, in the past. They’re pretty close. I mean, she’s not around all the time, I think she travels a lot with her work?” He reclaims his phone and quickly finds that video from a few weeks back that had enraged him so, the one where Ilya basically swaps girls in realtime. “He sees other people. Other girls,” he says, holding it up in demonstration.

“He does pretty well with the ladies,” says Dad, while Mom pulls a disapproving face.

“I wouldn’t call that doing well,” she says. “I’d call that lacking respect.”

Shane’s plan is maybe working a bit too well. “He’s not really like that,” he says quickly.

“Well, I hope you’d never treat anyone like that.”

“Oh, give the kid a break, Yuna. You think I wouldn’t have abandoned anyone I was with in an instant, if I’d seen you across a crowded room?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not what was happening in that video,” says Mom, but as usual Dad’s managed to make her smile. “Come on, David, deal.”

After dinner, Shane and his father do the dishes. When they get back to the living room, Mom’s back on the subject and the two glasses of wine she had with Christmas dinner are helping her be more up front with her thoughts that Shane thinks is necessary. She’s got her laptop open and multiple tabs lined up and ready.

“Shane, baby, come sit here,” she says, patting the cushions next to her. “I want to show you something.”

“What, Mom? Didn’t we say we’d watch a movie?”

“Yes, absolutely. David, honey, can you set that up? But look, Shane. I’m worried about this because when we were in Toronto, when we had dinner with Ilya, I told you it would be good to have his confidence with girls. And confidence is good, but honestly, this isn't what I meant at all. Look what I’ve found, and this isn’t even hard to find. Look!”

She flicks from tab to tab, a horrible mish-mash of social media and fan sites, paparazzi photos, the lot. She is terrifyingly good at finding stuff online. There’s Ilya, over and over, every time draped over a different girl. Blurry, laughing, holding up his hand to the camera. Tossing back shots. Lifting up his shirt to flash his six pack. Kissing girls. Kissing, kissing, kissing.

Shane swallows. It’s horrible to look at. But it’s what they agreed was necessary, right? This is the wall of puck bunnies that he and Ilya can hide behind?

“I mean, I’m sure he’s having fun, and he doesn’t seem like a bad person, that’s not what I’m saying, Shane. I’m just saying that I know you admire him, and I don’t… I don’t want you to pick up habits like this. It doesn’t show a lot of respect for women.”

“God, Mom, please. You know me. You know I could never.”

“No, you know I trust your moral judgment. I just… I know he means a lot to you, but that doesn’t mean you should model yourself on him. In this respect, anyway. Regardless of what I said.”

“I don’t! I wouldn’t.”

“Okay then. Enough.” She closes the laptop. “I’ve said my piece. And like I said, I think he seems like a lovely, capable young man. And he's an excellent hockey player. This is only one aspect of him, right?"

Shane watches the movie, barely following the plot. He definitely intended to steer his parents away from thinking there was anything weird between him and Ilya, but he hadn’t mean to convince his mother that Ilya was a—a—

Man-whore, he hears in Ilya’s laughing whisper.

Oops.

ILYA

One of Sveta’s disgustingly rich clients got her a dozen tickets to an exclusive New Year’s Eve party full of cool celebrities, actors and artists and athletes and models, and also a bunch of people who aren’t particularly interesting at all but have enough money to make up for it. Her client, Alex, is barely able to swallow his saliva as fast as it’s produced when he’s around her. Ilya can see why she begged Ilya and the boys to come with her. Protection, plain and simple.

It’s a damn impressive party though. The DJ is great, the food exquisite (the assembled Raiders live up to their name and balance out the nibbling models’ pathetic impact on the hors d’oeuvres) and the drinks flow freely.

By eleven the dance floor is packed tight and Ilya and Svetlana’s plan to throw the boys off the Shane-trail is going swimmingly; Ilya’s having a great time with her. He’s not going to sleep with her or anything, but oh, she’s sweet to kiss, and she’s a fantastic dancer. On top of which she’s funny as fuck, particularly in Russian, and they spend much of the evening saying appalling things about their fellow guests, while smiling sweetly. Ilya’s drunk, and he’s here with someone he adores, and he’s happy.

Things were a bit wobbly there for a while with Hollander, but he feels like they’re finding a strange sort of footing. An understanding. There’s a limit to what they can be, but still: they want to be it. If anyone had asked him at the end of their Moscow summer whether he’d have been willingly avoiding sexual opportunities because there’s only one he wants, he’d have laughed them out of town, but here he is: dancing with his best friend in what can only be described as a beard situation. And all because he can’t seem to be light and casual where Shane Hollander’s concerned. He can’t bear the idea of hurting that man’s feelings. 

Ugh, he wishes Hollander were here. He’d hate it, probably, but still. Ilya would surely find some way to make it bearable.

Someone slaps Ilya’s ass, hard. Marly, of course, the big neanderthal lump. Ilya turns and grins; here are Marly and Rivers, Jaakola and Connors, all with assorted girls that they’ve either brought with or acquired on site, and Paulie and Suze too. It was nice to be able to offer them these fancy tickets, after the generous way they’d hosted Christmas. Suze dances close, blows him a kiss.

“Thank you so much for this, Ilya! Such a great night!”

“Not me! Sveta!”

“Oh, of course!” She flings her arms around Sveta, kissing her on the cheek and leaving a lipstick smear. She’s affectionate and very pissed. It’s pretty cute. Sveta kisses her back, and the boys whoop until both Paulie and Ilya glare at them.

They dance, they laugh, they dance more. The crowd writhes in the darkness, lights flashing. Time ticks onwards as they fritter away the year's last hour.

Ilya wishes his first kiss of the New Year could be with Shane. It’s not bad that he gets to kiss Sveta. It’s lovely. But still.

It’s not even one, and the party’s still in full swing, when he asks Sveta if she’s ready to go yet.

“Fuck, yes, my feet are on fire.”

“What do you expect, wearing shoes like that?”

“A woman’s burden,” she retorts.

“If you wore some nice sensible flats, Alex might leave you alone.”

“Seriously? You think the only attractive thing about me is a pair of toe-maiming Louboutins?”

“Not the only thing. But they are a high point. Excellent shoes.”

“You won’t say that when I take them off and you see what hideous torture they’ve inflicted on my feet.”

Ilya pulls a revolted face. “Shall we say our goodbyes, then?”

“We could. Or we could just sneak.”

Appealing though this proposal is, Ilya wants to make the most of his exit with Sveta. She’s staying with him again, and they’re still sharing his bed. It’s nice to have a warm body there on winter nights. This morning he’d woken up with a very unsubtle erection pressed into her thigh, and she’d giggled and given him a well we could if you want? look, and it was admittedly tempting; but no. He can’t do it to Shane, and he can’t let her be his second choice, either. She deserves so much more than that. Actually, she deserves so much more than he’s currently giving her; he really owes her. She’s the absolute fucking best.

So he does the rounds, finds the guys, and tells them they’re heading off. They all make a fuss and tell him he’s a party pooper (a particularly strange and disgusting English phrase, that one) but all he has to do is shoot a sideways glance at Sveta and open his eyes wide, like, look what’s waiting for me! And nobody could argue with that, could they?

When they get home, Sveta disappears into the main bathroom and Ilya strips down to his boxers, gets a large glass of water, and sits on the bed.

happy new year, he texts Hollander, not really expecting any response. But a minute or two later his phone chirps at him.

yeah happy new year how was the big party?

very big very good

not that good if you’re texting me

am home

party pooper

Ilya laughs. never, he writes. but many games coming up

i know, shit is crazy right?

busy for sure. For sure? He’s starting to sound like Hollander.

so many games but we don’t get to play each other again until february, sucks

yes

want to face time?

Ilya does want to face time, as it happens, but he’s not going to risk being discovered by Svetlana Vetrova having lovesick video sex. sveta is here, he writes, and hopes Hollander understands.

oh okay hi Sveta!

she is in bathroom. you have good new year?

yeah pretty quiet

what!!! party animal shane hollander has quiet new year?

fuck off

Ilya smiles indulgently. but you are still awake, is late

yeah writes Shane, and then, i had an idea maybe if you’re interested

okay tell me

There’s a delay. Shane is obviously doing some careful wording. Ilya chews at the side of his nail, impatient.

well we both have a bye week last week of jan and i thought maybe if you want you could come visit me in ottawa. but no pressure

Ilya finds he is doing a small wriggly dance of excitement on the bed. Very embarrassing. He orders his buttocks to desist. 

not montreal?

no i’m going home for the week. thought you might like to see ottawa

you want me to meet your parents hollander? should i bring you flowers or are you already expecting a ring

fuck you, no

is joke

no shit

okay i will come, says Ilya quickly, before he overthinks things or makes a joke so offensive that Hollander changes his mind.

i just thought you might like a holiday, i’m not trying to be weird

i love your weird, types Ilya. He hesitates and then deletes that and writes i don’t think you have to try hollander i think it is natural for you

seriously fuck you

send me dates and i book flight

okay. goodnight then

hollander

yes?

spasibo.

Ilya has never felt particularly close to his brother, but there must be some kind of connection between them because Alexei has an uncanny ability to call him at the worst times, every time. And although Ilya absolutely does NOT want to pick up when he sees that name on his phone, the current state of affairs with his father has him anxious.

This time Alexei has managed to call while Ilya is face down on the PT’s table, getting a brutal deep tissue massage on his legs. He shouldn’t really have brought his phone in here, but he was kind of hoping Hollander might text. He briefly considers ignoring it, but what if something bad has happened? He scowls over at the phone where it’s sitting on top of the pile of his clothes, squawking.

“Do you need to take that?” says Lee. “Turn over, I can work on your quads.”

“Thank you.” Ilya flips onto his back, holding the phone to his ear and putting his other arm over his eyes as Lee’s oiled hands slide hard over his thigh. “Alexei? Is everything okay?”

“Of course of course of course!” says Alexei, very fast. Fuck. Coked up.

“Only I’m with the physical therapist at the moment, so—”

“Oooh, so fancy! Your big American team looking after their special little Russian bear! And you are doing so well, hey?”

“Not bad. How is papa?”

“Fine. Well, mad as fuck, as usual. But fine. But listen. Listen, I have great news! Darya’s pregnant! You’re going to be an uncle!”

Darya? Who the fuck is she? Also, Alexei as a father is a nightmare idea. And Ilya’s supposed to be happy about this?

“I thought you were with Alisa?”

“Nah, that bitch is gone. Darya is great, much better. Amazing tits. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

“Um. Sure. Congratulations. When?”

“May. June? I don’t fucking know. But anyway, I probably have to marry her.”

“You don’t sound too excited about that.”

“Well I wasn’t, because weddings are fucking expensive, but then what do I see? My famous little brother doing some big advert for hockey gear? Great timing, golden boy. It’ll be a good wedding. Great party. You can come! Maybe best to do it soon before she gets too huge.”

“I’m not bankrolling your shotgun wedding,” Ilya snaps.

“Don’t be such a fucking asshole!” cries Alexei indignantly. “You’re making more money than any of us! This is a fucking family wedding!”

“I don’t even know this woman! And if she’s four months gone—fuck, when I called in November Alisa was there, so did you just manage to knock up this new one on the side?”

“Motherfucker!” Alexei yells, abandoning all pretence at amiability. “This woman is having my fucking kid! Why do you always have to do this? Always make out like you’re better than everyone else, like nobody is good enough for you? Darya is giving you a nephew or niece, and you’re disrespecting her?”

“I’m not,” says Ilya. Lee’s thumbs press viciously hard into his thigh muscle and he concentrates on that pain, which is much better than the pain of this fucked-up conversation.

“Okay, then. Respect her and respect me and have some common fucking decency. Send me two hundred k so I can do the right thing.”

“I’m not sending you two hundred k!”

“Jesus fuck, what is wrong with you? Mama would be—”

“Don’t do it, don’t bring Mama into this!”

“—she’d be so fucking disappointed—”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Alexei!” Ilya shouts, sitting up so suddenly that Lee jumps back from the table, lifting his hands high as though he’s just hurt Ilya. Waving an apologetic hand, Ilya swings his legs off the table.

“Sorry,” he says, “Sorry, family thing, sorry.” 

He goes out to the corridor, squatting there in his underwear while his brother curses at him, invokes their dead mother, and demands more, more, more.

Alexei’s got a job. He’s a grown man. Where’s his pride, god dammit? 

Perhaps a better question is: where is Ilya’s pride? Why can’t he just hang up? Why does he have to answer the phone, why does he have to listen to this, put up with this?

Because he knows what his mother would say.

He’s your brother. Your blood. The closest thing to you in this whole world, Ilyushka. I know he annoys you. I know he’s mean sometimes. But it’s hard for him, he doesn’t have your talent. He knows you’re going to do wonderful things and he’s just like the rest of us, ordinary. So try to see it from his side, my sweetheart. Try to just shake it off. Yes, yes, I’ll talk to him. Of course I will. But when he apologises, you’ll accept it, okay? Because you’re a team. You’re my boys, and I love you more than anything. Don’t fight. For me.

Two hundred thousand rubles. It’s not that much in US dollars, really. Not even ten k. And that ad money was dollars for nothing, right?

“Okay, Alexei,” says Ilya tiredly. “Okay.”

Chapter 8: In Which Ilya Rozanov Meets The Parents

SHANE

“Hey,” says Shane, in a very relaxed and friendly and manly sort of way, holding out a hand to Ilya.

“Hey,” says Ilya, grabbing that hand and using it to pull Shane in for a back-slapping, hockey-bro kind of a hug. It’s not what Shane really wants, but it’s still pretty great. The airport crowd flows around them like water and Shane can’t stop grinning. Ilya looks so good. All in black, his eyes as blue as the inside of a glacier, and his mouth… well, that’s as delectable as ever. 

Shane’s going to get to kiss that mouth.

Not yet, though. “So glad you could come,” he says, trying not to smile too gormlessly. “Really cool to see you.”

“Yes. Is good.”

“You brought skates, right?” Shane asks, glancing at Ilya’s suitcase, which isn’t really that big.

“Yes, I do everything you tell me, don’t worry.”

“Cool, cool. ‘Cos I thought we could—”

“Sorry, ‘scuse me, sorry, but you’re Shane Hollander, aren’t you?”

The woman’s got a boy with her, maybe eight or nine, and he’s blinking owlishly up at Shane. His scarf is striped in the familiar Metros red and blue. Shane stops and smiles politely. “Yes. Hi. Hello.”

“Ryder’s such a fan of yours. He literally switched his favourite team when you were drafted. It’s so cool to see an Ottawa boy doing so well, we’re so proud of you!”

“That’s awesome to hear. Thanks, Ryder. Do you play hockey too?”

Ryder nods, and then clocks Ilya, who’s staring around the concourse and not listening. He says in a small, awed voice, “Mom, that’s Rozanov.”

“Oh!” says his mom. “Gosh, of course, I’m so sorry I didn’t—wow, this is amazing!” She’s rifling in her handbag. “Oh man, I wish I had something I could ask you guys to sign!”

“Oh well, never mind,” says Shane. “We have to get going, but so nice to meet you, and keep skating, Ryder!” He doesn’t want to sign anything, because other people notice that, and then they stop, and it just kind of snowballs from there. But it’s okay that the kid clocked Ilya, right? They’re friends. It’s okay.

“He will, I’m sure,” says Ryder’s mom. “So sorry to hold you up. Great to meet you both. Keep up the good work! You’re amazing!”

Shane waves and heads off.

“So polite,” murmurs Ilya teasingly. “Such a good role model.” 

“Shut up, asshole,” says Shane. He’s so happy he could combust.

It’s a freezing, clear-skies day today, and only mid-afternoon so the traffic’s not bad. Shane takes them the riverside route, instead of the highway, and he’s gratified when Ilya smiles to see the looming elegance of Parliament Hill. The gothic lines of the Peace Tower might not be as freakishly cool as St Basil’s, but they’re not nothing, either.

“What is it?” Ilya asks.

“Parliament building. Government.”

“Ahh. Your Kremlin.”

Shane laughs. “I’m totally going to call it the Kremlin from now on.”

“I think I am only person who will think that is funny.”

Since Ilya is the only person who Shane wants to make laugh, this is fine.

“Hey, see through there?” Shane points. “See the locks there? That’s the Rideau Canal. It’s kind of famous for skating in winter. I thought maybe we could do that one day. That’s why I said to bring your skates.”

“Oh, that is why I am here? Skating?”

“We don’t have to,” says Shane, stung; but Ilya’s hand covers his on the gearstick, and squeezes.

“Joking. Is good idea. Fun. Sorry, I am just a little…” 

Ilya shrugs, like he can’t think of the right word. Shane’s pretty sure the right word is “nervous”, but he can’t imagine Ilya admitting to such a thing, so the shrug is fine. “Me too,” he says.

“Your parents… They are okay with me coming to stay?”

“Yeah, of course. I mean, don’t worry, they won’t be around that much. Dad will be working, and Mom keeps pretty busy. We can do our own thing.”

Ilya snorts. “Maybe not all of our thing, I think.”

Shane’s got a potential backup plan for that. But he doesn’t want to suggest it yet. He’s gotta see how things go with Ilya and his parents, first.

“So, um, I should tell you… I kind of let my parents think that Svetlana is sort of your kind of girlfriend.”

“Kind of, sort of, kind of?”

“Yeah. Which is kind of sort of true.”

“It is not,” says Ilya. He squeezes Shane’s hand again. “But is good they think so, yes?”

“Yeah. Because Mom… Listen, I know this sounds really bad and I don’t want you to think she’s terrible, she’s not, but she did a lot of googling and found a ton of pictures of you over the last few months, with, like, a ton of different girls, and—”

“This is good!” Ilya exclaims. “She will not think we are lovers!”

“Christ, Ilya, no,” says Shane, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Wrong word. Definitely wrong. Do not use.”

Ilya’s hand withdraws and he slumps into his seat, palpably sulky. “What is right word, then?”

Shane glances over at him. Blue eyes, anxious, irritable. He wants to kiss all that stormy emotion off Ilya’s face and replace it with something more familiar. Lust, teasing, affection.

“I don’t know,” says Shane. “But not that one.”

They’re silent for a few minutes, heading west, away from downtown.

“Friends with benefits,” Ilya proclaims out of nowhere. “Is American phrase.”

“Okay, I guess that one’s better. But don’t use that with my parents, either.”

Ilya laughs and slaps Shane’s hand repeatedly, grinning toothily at him.

When they get home, the house is empty. Shane shows Ilya where everything is; this takes ages because Ilya keeps stopping to look at pictures of Shane and exclaim over them, tease him for being such a fat baby, coo over him in his first skates, read every word of the (very embarrassing) framed article from the Ottawa Citizen about Shane being the first draft pick (“Look! I am in here too! We are famous together!” “Whatever, number two.” “Wow, Shane, you are very bitchy.”) and thoroughly examine his parents’ wedding photo on the sideboard.

“Oof, good looking. Is why you are so pretty.”

“You are so nosy,” Shane grumbles. He’s a little bit put out that Ilya has spent a good ten minutes looking at pictures and absolutely zero minutes kissing Shane, which is a terrible waste when he doesn’t know when his mother is suddenly going to get home. “Come on, the guest room’s through here.”

It’s a nice guest room, warm and comfy. The wallpaper behind the bed is a riot of leafy branches, dotted with exotic birds, and the pillows match their bright colours. Ilya hefts his case onto the bed and declares, “Very nice, but one thing missing I think.”

“What?”

Pulling a sad face, Ilya corrals Shane against the wardrobe door, running his hands up underneath Shane’s coat. “I worry maybe you will not be in that bed tonight.”

“No. Sorry. No.”

“I sneak up to you?”

“No! My room’s right next to—No, Ilya. But we can maybe find time, we can maybe—”

Ilya leans in and shuts him up with a soft, deliberate, gently open-mouthed kiss and Shane’s shoulders relax back against the door. Mmm, he hears himself say, and he cups Ilya’s jaw, feeling it move and open as the kiss deepens. His blood’s immediately warming, swirling. Ilya’s hips sway forward, pinning him, and Shane’s whole skeleton relaxes into it as Ilya’s tongue slips between his lips, sleek and teasing. Shane adores the sounds it makes, kissing Ilya; the soft, wet, sexy, promissory sound of tongues and lips moving, connecting, disconnecting, sliding, tasting. He loves the way Ilya’s breath gets deeper and louder and then slips into a small, low groan that sends lustful arrows of sensation straight to Shane’s cock. He’s hard in seconds, grinding up, and Ilya pulls him even closer, stiffening the same. He slips a hand under Shane’s shirt, spreading it wide over the small of Shane’s back, fingertips clutching, and god, Shane wants so much more skin.

“Boys! I’m home!”

Ilya springs back so fast he stumbles, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Those wild blue eyes sparkle with wickedness above his broad palm. 

“Shane? Where are you?”

“We’re, um. In the guest room, mom.”

Ilya flicks his suitcase open and starts pulling things out of it at high speed, the world’s messiest unpacking. Shane gestures to the chest of drawers, joining in the play-acting. “There’s, um, room for your things in there,” he says loudly. “And, um.” He opens the wardrobe, as his mother’s soft footsteps approach.

“Hi, Ilya, welcome!” she says, and when Ilya smiles and holds out a hand she ignores it and pulls him into a hug. His eyes go wide over her shoulder and he gently pats her back.

“Hello, Mrs Hollander.”

“Yuna, please, I told you that. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, I should’ve gone shopping earlier, but the morning got away on me. Has Shane shown you around?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Well, please, do make yourself at home. That’s the main thing. Help yourself in the kitchen, that sort of thing, we’re very casual around here. I put clean towels in the downstairs bathroom, we don’t usually use that one so it’s all yours. I’m not sure if you boys have made any plans for what’s left of today, but I’m going to do a roast chicken tonight, does that sound okay? Shane says you haven’t got any particular dietary requirements?”

“Yes, no, very good,” says Ilya, who looks a bit overwhelmed.

“Great. Okay, then. I’ll leave you to finish unpacking.” She gives Shane a quick hug too. “Have you shown Ilya the backyard rink yet? You should get outside for a little, it’ll be dark soon.”

“Rink?” says Ilya, his head tilting sideways.

They stand at the back porch, Ilya with his skates in hand. Shane is embarrassed half to death. He has no idea what got into him, inviting Ilya here. It was madness. So much for being Ilya’s sexy… friend with benefits. Now he’s here in his parents’ house, looking at the rink his dad first assembled fourteen winters ago. Back then, it seemed so huge, the wooden frame filling the full width of the back yard. Now it seems absolutely fucking juvenile.

He looks over at Ilya, almost afraid of what he’ll see on his face.

But Ilya looks charmed. He’s looking around everywhere, back up at the bricks of the house, at the moss-veined concrete paths that wind around the side of the property, at the spindly, snow-lined branches of the big trees that overhang the rink. “You have rink,” he says.

“I mean, it’s pretty small. It was good when I was a kid.”

“Every winter, you have this?”

“Yeah. We put it up every winter. Fill it with water, and… yeah. I used to spend most of the day out here. Dad and I would practice for hours. He played defence at McGill.” (Ilya looks blank.) “At university.”

“Ah. Okay. We can play?”

The sun is lowering, the light cold through the branches. The tip of Ilya’s nose is red, kissable. Shane sets up the targets inside the goals. The rink is really only big enough for handling and accuracy practice, but it’s fun to start off in the centre, face-off after face-off. Shane always counts down, three, two, one, but Ilya’s a terrible cheat and keeps going just before go, breaking the rules to piss Shane off. The game is tight, fast, ridiculous in this small space; one on one, both of them simultaneously goalie and shooter. Ilya hurtles tight around the corners, fearless to the point of recklessness, and it’s not long until he goes down, sliding out, yelling and cursing and laughing.

Shane glides over and holds down a helping hand. “Careful, you maniac. Your coach is going to be pretty mad if you come home broken.”

“Maybe is your plan,” says Ilya. “You bring me here like innocent lamb. Here, Rozanov, play on my sweet little rink, but you know is death trap. This is evil Montreal plan to defeat Boston.”

“I’m sorry. This was a dumb idea. It’s only a thing for kids.”

“Not dumb.” Ilya taps the puck gently over to Shane, and Shane taps it just as gently back. They skate in lazy circles, passing back and forth in short, friendly passes as the day fades, and the lights come on in the house.

ILYA

Gospodi, this house is like a fairy tale. Those bricks might as well be fucking gingerbread. The  bright fire, the cosy lighting, the delicious smells of cooking. Beautiful Shane Hollander, sitting here beside Ilya on the bar stools alongside the kitchen island, chatting with his equally beautiful mother, who hugged Ilya in a way he hasn’t been hugged for years and years. She’s offered Ilya wine, which he’s not particularly fond of, but it seemed polite to accept. While she cooks she’s telling Ilya stories about Shane growing up, and his obsession with hockey; she’s sharing adorable anecdotes about little Shane refusing to come off the ice, throwing a full body tantrum about it aged four, and more than once sneaking out after bedtime, in his pyjamas and coat and skates, out to the backyard rink on moonlit nights. Shane is cringing and muttering Mom please and Ilya is encouraging her. More! More! 

And then the door opens and here comes Hollander’s father to complete the family set.

Ilya has not had a great experience with fathers. He is pretty happy here with Shane and his mom, and hasn’t been looking forward to the paternal arrival. History has taught him that family life can sometimes be pretty nice with a mother, but fathers tend to shove a stick through the spokes of that bicycle’s wheels. He tenses, sits up straighter, and makes a last minute attempt to flatten his curls into something more manly and acceptable.

“Smells incredible!” calls a male voice, as the front door closes. “Did you rotisserie?”

“Sure did!” calls Yuna.

Shane Hollander’s father appears in the doorway and Ilya slides off the stool, standing straight and solemn.  

“Hey, Dad. This is Ilya. Rozanov,” says Shane, gesturing at Ilya. “Ilya, this is my dad.”

“Call me David,” says… David. Yuna and David. Ilya has a brief, slightly hysterical moment of fantasy in which his own father says, “Call me Grigori” to one of Ilya’s friends and has to bite the side of his tongue to stop himself from yelping with laughter.

David Hollander is a little shorter than Ilya, sandy-haired and bright-eyed. His face is nearly as lined as Ilya’s father’s, but the lines are different: these come from smiling, and they’ve shaped his face into a different kind of age. He shakes hands with Ilya, welcoming him to Ottawa, hugs Shane, and then kisses his wife and squeezes her tight, right there in the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of wine, tops up his wife’s glass, and sits beside Shane, leaning across to clink his glass against Ilya’s, saying tchin-tchin! 

Ilya tries not to stare. See? Fairytale.

So now, on top of all Shane Hollander’s other identities—terror on the ice, polite media spokesman, neurotic perfectionist, unbridled sex demon and exceptional kisser—Ilya has to layer in a new persona, that of adored son and cosy homebody. A bizarre and wonderful combination.

As the final preparations are made for dinner David asks Ilya about his flight; enquires how he’s finding Boston and America and the Raiders, all that stuff, but Ilya feels weirdly tongue-tied. Like a cuckoo in the nest, something that doesn’t quite belong. He almost feels fucking shy, which is not a familiar sensation at all. 

The conversation turns to what he and Shane might do with their time in Ottawa, and Shane takes over, talking about plans to skate on the canal, to show Ilya around downtown. Ilya sips his wine and nods and revels (shyly) in the warmth of it all. 

Shane shifts his leg and presses his knee against Ilya’s. Like he’s checking in. Ilya presses back, and Shane doesn’t look at him, but he smiles.

Ilya helps Shane set the table. They eat, and it’s delicious, the chicken falling off the bone, moist and rich. Vegetables, roasted and steamed. Mashed potatoes, and brown rice. Shane makes all the healthy choices. Ilya doesn’t. He eats the lot, and Yuna presses seconds on him, then thirds. She looks happy when he takes more, her eyes crinkling up like Shane’s do when Ilya tells her how delicious it all is. He wants to eat more, eat everything, to get her to make that satisfied face. 

She’s not the granite, controlling mother that Rivers’ stupid cousin claimed. Or at any rate, not only that. There’s a warmth to her as well. A warmth that he remembers, dimly, from his own mother’s good days.

But Yuna is not like his mother. Yuna feels… not hard, no, not that. But solid. Unbreakable. Certain, in a way that his beautiful mama never was.

And David? David is not like any father Ilya has ever encountered. He’s so easy-going and pleasant to be around. He asks his wife about her day and listens intently to her answers. He quizzes Shane about a tap that they somehow fixed together and congratulates him on his first solo plumbing attempt. He tells a terrible dad joke about a talking horse in a bar and giggles so helplessly he can barely get the punchline out. Honestly, he’s a little bit confusing. Ilya doesn’t quite know what to make of him.

After dinner, Shane tells his parents to go sit down, that he and Ilya will clean up. They stack the dishwasher and then Ilya washes the pots and pans while Shane dries and puts away. They don’t talk much while they do it. Ilya’s basking in the sweetness of this domestic harmony. It’s novel and lovely. He lets the dishwater out and wipes down the bench, then tugs the dishtowel out of Shane’s hands to dry his own, smiling at him.

Shane’s not smiling back. He looks kind of uncomfortable. Has Ilya… done something wrong?

“Shane?” he says, frowning.

Shane swallows. “I’m, um… I’m really sorry,” he says.

Ilya shakes his head, confused. “For what?”

(He’s going to tell Ilya to go home, isn’t he! This is how a polite Canadian would start that conversation. By apologising.)

“I’m sorry this is so lame,” says Shane, all in a rush. “I’m sorry it’s not, you know. Fun. Cool.”

Ilya fights an urge to laugh, because Shane is serious. He honestly thinks his perfect home is somehow insufficient! He has no idea. It’s the same as the way he doesn’t understand what a miracle he is in bed.

“Hey,” says Ilya softly, lifting Shane’s chin with the side of a finger. “No. Is good. Is great.”

“But you’ve been so quiet, you’re… it’s not like you.”

“Is not because I don’t like it here. Is very different to my home, yes?”

Because Shane’s seen his home. Met his father. Felt the cold, stony heart at the centre of Ilya’s family life. 

“I guess. Yeah.”

“So I am trying to be like nice polite Canadian.”

“You’re hardly saying anything.”

Ilya shrugs. “Maybe I am shy. Want them to like me.”

“Of course they like you. Why wouldn’t anybody like you?”

The answer to this is, of course, they would probably not like me if they knew what I have been doing with their beloved only child. Ilya doesn’t voice this out loud, but he pulls a big-eyed face that obviously conveys the sentiment, because Shane snorts.

“Okay, sure. But I do know this is kind of boring compared to Moscow and Boston and clubs and stuff. And they can be a lot, you know? A bit, um… Do you know the word stifling?”

“No?”

Shane holds a hand over his mouth and nose in a mime of suffocation. “Like you can’t breathe.”

Shaking his head, Ilya takes Shane hand away from his face, squeezing his fingers. “I can breathe, Shane. Is good. Is nice. Okay?”

“Are you sure? We don’t have to stay here. We can go back to Montreal.”

“No,” says Ilya, wrinkling up his nose. “Nobody in Montreal will cook me rotisserie chicken or tell me horse joke.”

That makes Shane smile. “Okay. But please, tell me if you want things to be different. Promise?”

“Promise,” says Ilya.

I want a thing to be different, he texts Shane a few hours later.

It’s after midnight. The Hollanders retired early, by ten pm, after teaching Ilya to play Yahtzee (he lost, but David and Shane assured him this is only because Yuna is freakishly lucky and always wins) and promising to show him baby Shane photo albums tomorrow after he begged, much to Shane’s horror. Ilya lies awake in the comfortable guest bed, acutely aware of Shane’s proximity on the storey above him. Right above him. He heard the floor creak when Shane got into bed. 

Shane is almost certainly asleep, though, so he won’t see this text until morning. Oh, shit, and then he will freak out—Ilya can’t leave it there. He starts typing again, but then he sees that Shane is also typing, and pauses.

what? says Shane. 

Not asleep, then. A plan flourishes in Ilya’s imagination.

want you to be in this bed

i can’t are you crazy

you can, Ilya insists, and then you sneaked out when you were four, have you forgotten how? And then, without waiting for a response, I am naked are you?

ilya don’t, i won’t be able to sleep if you say things like that

i already cannot sleep, come put me to sleeeeeeep

Nothing. Ilya decides if Shane is not arguing, that must imply that he’s weakening.

pleeeeeeeease

pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeese hollander

The floor creaks. Victory!

Ilya moves over in the bed, making room for his imminent visitor. He also wriggles out of his boxers, because he was lying, before, about being naked.

For several minutes he doesn’t hear any other sounds, and is beginning to think that maybe he was being a little bit optimistic when the door slowly opens, a dim shaft of moonlight entering. Quiet as a mouse, Shane creeps in and shuts it behind himself. He doesn’t say anything, but Ilya senses, as much as hears, the removal of clothing; then the bed shifts gently beneath him and a moment later Shane’s strong, warm, bare body is plastered against him and he’s whispering, very softly, against Ilya’s ear.

“This is a terrible idea, for the record.”

“Yes, very terrible, I hate it,” Ilya whispers back, half delirious with joy, winding his arms around Shane and pulling him close. There. Completion. Rightness.

Also, lust. Vast, consuming lust. Oof, kissing Shane in the light is always very nice because he is so good to look at, but kissing him in the dark is also extremely pleasurable. No distractions. Except for Shane’s wandering hands, and also Ilya’s, which have gone straight to Shane’s delectable ass, squeezing and stroking. And also the distraction of their twin erections, crushed between their writhing bodies. And, oh, also the warm, lovely smell of him. And the sounds their mouths make, small and wet. 

Okay, there are a lot of distractions. But still, the kissing is incandescently good. So good that Ilya accidentally lets out a little moan.

Shane, the beast, stops kissing and hisses, “Shhhh!”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya whispers, very very quietly. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. I know this is so dumb, having to creep around like this. I know.”

“It is not dumb.”

“It kind of is. We should have met in Montreal. Or I could’ve come to Boston.”

“Shane. It is very nice here. No more sorries.”

“But I want you so bad,” Shane whispers. “God, I wish we could fuck.”

“We can! I will be very quiet, I promise!”

“We can’t. The headboard knocks. And the sheets would get all… We can’t.” He makes a very soft but very frustrated sound. “I did not think this through properly at all.”

“Is okay,” says Ilya, who might actually die if he is forced to spend an entire celibate week in the presence of Shane Hollander; so it is not really very okay at all, in fact it is potentially fatal. “I suck your cock, I swallow, will be very quiet and tidy.”

“Wait, Ilya, wait, no—”

It’s far too late for all that demurring. Ilya is already burrowing down under the covers, into the heat and the delicious clean animal smell of their bodies. He’s already rolling Shane onto his back and licking at him, kissing his erection wetly. He’s missed this beautiful cock so, so, so much. 

It’s not fair that he’s not going to get the pleasure of Shane’s usual wanton moans and sighs and imprecations but he’ll use his imagination. Every time that Shane’s fingers pull hard at his hair, he’ll know that means ohhhh fuck Ilya that feels so good. Every time he hears Shane’s heels scrabbling against the sheets—yes, yes, just like that—he’ll know it means I love your mouth on me, you’re so good at that, don’t stop.

Darkness, quiet, heat, flesh, clutching hands, gasping breaths, over and over until Shane’s whole body shudders and he twitches and comes against Ilya’s tongue, a gorgeous filthy spurting torrent. 

Ilya barely has time to swallow before strong arms are hauling him up, and Shane is kissing him deep. The air feels cool against Ilya’s face, sweat-slicked from the heat beneath the blankets, and then Shane is rolling Ilya onto his back and diving down. 

Ilya stretches his arms up high, into the cool, over his head, and revels, revels, revels in the precious, familiar glory of Shane’s mouth around his cock, right up until he has to bite down on the meat of his thumb to hold back the sounds as ecstasy gathers, ignites, and explodes bright and delicious through his body.

Afterwards, wrapped in each other, they trade lazy kisses. Shane traces soft fingertips over Ilya’s back, shivery good.

“I can’t believe we did that,” he whispers. “Here. Fuck. My grandma stays in this bed.” He giggles so hard the bed shakes and he’s right, the headboard does knock a little, which stops him giggling immediately.

“Is okay,” whispers Ilya. “Grandma had sex at least once. She will understand.”

Shane pinches him, making a quiet gagging sound. Then he sighs.

“I wish I could stay here. I wish we could just go to sleep, like we did in Balashikha.”

“Mmm.” Ilya nuzzles close, burying his nose in Shane’s neck. That would be so perfect.

“I bet if you were a girl they wouldn’t mind,” says Shane, suddenly. “I bet it would be different.”

“Maybe. But I am not.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No. But…” Ilya shrugs. Fair is a concept for the privileged few. Not much in Russia is fair, in his experience, and while he might have once hoped it would be different here, he’s since been disabused of that notion.

“I better go.”

This is obviously the unfairest option of all. Ilya makes a disgruntled noise and tries to persuade Shane to stay by starting up more kissing, but Shane’s having none of it.

“Don’t. I don’t want to go but I have to.” He slips his tongue gently between Ilya’s lips in apology and Ilya captures it, sucks on it until Shane laughs softly into his mouth.

“Stop it, you menace.”

“Okay.” A last kiss, and Ilya pushes him away. “Go, then.”

“Yeah.”

Shane climbs out of the bed and there’s that rustle of clothing again; then the bed dips and Shane’s leaning over, finding Ilya’s face with a seeking hand.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispers, and then retreats.

A closed door. Soft footsteps, a quiet creak, and before he knows it, Ilya’s asleep.

Chapter 9: In Which Shane Hollander Lures Ilya Rozanov Even Further Into the Fairytale Woods

SHANE

Next morning, Shane is dreading going downstairs and having to meet his mother’s eyes in the kitchen. What if she heard him creeping around last night? What if she knows?

What if, as soon as she sees him, she says gravely, “Shane, we need to talk, because it is extremely obvious that you have some very intense and inappropriate feelings about Ilya Rozanov and I believe you may have been acting upon them in our guest room. Where you grandmother stays.”

As if this isn’t bad enough, his imagination ups the ante. What if—oh god—what if she fixes him with a disappointed maternal eye and says “Promise me you’ve at least been using protection?”

He would die on the spot. Stroke out. Willingly.

He slaps his cheek gently, trying to clear that hideous vision from his mind, but once he’s started catastrophising it can be hard to stop. What if she says something in front of Ilya? What if she says, “I told you Ilya looked like a bad influence. I think perhaps you should head home, Ilya. Shane is very impressionable.” She called him that once in front of his cousin Theo, who’s five years older than him and got caught smoking at his aunt’s birthday party. Theo still thinks Shane is an absolute loser, despite all the hockey.

He goes to the bathroom and showers quickly, trying to get himself back under control. This is so typical of him. He had a stupid idea and didn’t think it through and now he’s stuck at home with the gorgeous bisexual Russian fuck buddy he can’t stop thinking about twenty-four seven, and his parents. This is not how a relaxing bye week is supposed to go.

Maybe it wouldn’t be quite so bad if he wasn’t so deeply, hopelessly infatuated with literally everything about Ilya Rozanov. His eyes and his mouth and his curls, his shoulders, his skin with all its scattered moles, his voice, his accent, his big hands, his big dick, his luscious ass, his muscled legs. His rude jokes and his unexpected sweetness. The way he kisses, and the way he touches Shane’s face while he does it. The way he fucks, oh, God, the way he fucks. The way he plays hockey. The way he dresses. How cool he is, how confident, how wicked, how absolutely fucking perfect.

Shane is in so, so, so deep. Half a year ago he didn’t even know Ilya. But now—

A sudden, pealing laugh echoes up from the kitchen, a lower-pitched chuckle layered underneath it. Oh, shit, is Ilya up already?

Taking the stairs two at a time, Shane hurries downstairs to find Ilya perched on a bar stool in the kitchen, curls damp and freshly washed, grinning over his shoulder. At the hob stands Shane’s mother, still giggling.

“Here he is,” says Ilya. “Best English tutor in Moscow.”

“Hey,” says Shane. He gives his mom a quick hug from behind. 

“Morning, honey. Ilya was just telling me about the other tutor. I hear he was pretty bad.”

“And Shane was very, very good,” says Ilya. Shane shakes his head, blushing.

“Did you, uh, sleep okay, Ilya?” he says, to change the subject.

“Very well,” says Ilya, not putting even a little bit of innuendo into it. He’s behaving impeccably, thank goodness. “Very comfortable bed, thank you.”

Mom says, “Grab yourself some coffee, Shane. I’m not doing a big breakfast here, just scrambled eggs and toast.”

“No toast for me, thanks.”

“Energy, Shane! Aren’t you doing the canal, today?”

“Yeah, but I’ll make a smoothie. Eggs will be good though.”

Mom kisses her teeth, annoyed. “Are you this fussy about macros, Ilya?”

“What is macros?”

Mom pulls a See? face at Shane.

“Oh my god, get off my case. It’s not a bad thing to try to eat for performance,” he says, measuring protein powder into the mixer.

“I’m just saying, you could allow yourself a little more leeway.”

He ignores her. “Ilya, you want a smoothie?”

“No, I will eat evil toast. Thank you, Yuna,” says Ilya, accepting his plate of eggs-on-toast with a blindingly lovely smile.

Since he was a little boy, barely on skates, Shane’s loved the Rideau Canal. Frozen over, it becomes a place for everyone to skate, even commute. The ice isn’t much like the rink, of course; much rougher, especially close to town where the crowds are larger. But Shane and Ilya head away up-canal, skating as fast as the conditions let them.

Shane has always done this. Always gone haring off, freezing wind on his face, loving the sensation of flight and freedom and escape; and since he was, what, maybe twelve, nobody’s ever been able to keep up with him. 

But now. Today?

Ilya’s right there, at his side. The push and scrape of two sets of blades, the white clouds of two sets of lungs expelling warmth out into the gelid air in deep, panting breaths. The canal opens up, fewer and fewer skaters, and the tall buildings of downtown shrink away behind them, smaller and squatter. Trees crowd down to the sides of the canal, skeletal black fingers reaching up to the icy white sky. White ice, white sky, black trees, and the gorgeous pop of colour that is Ilya in his scarlet toque, with his pink cheeks and nose and his laughing, open mouth. Shane’s lungs heave in cold air as he pushes, faster, faster. Thighs burning, glutes too. Flight, but this time, in formation. Not alone.

He’s always been the fastest. But today, they’re the fastest.

It makes his heart ache with happiness. Ilya is so perfect. Every time they meet, every day they spend together, it gets clearer and truer, and Shane wants him more, and more, and more.

There’s a bridge coming up, with steps up from the canal, and Ilya points, shouts Hot chocolate!

It’s been years since Shane had a hot chocolate. But today feels special, and he wants to celebrate. They sit on a bench, gloves off, warming their hands on the paper cups.

“Is good, skating with you,” says Ilya, nudging Shane gently.

“You, too.”

“You make me fast.”

“Same.”

“I see how Ottawa made you.” Ilya looks at him sideways, a soft smile on his face. “Your home, your family, this city.”

“What do you mean?”

A shrug. “Someone like you has to come from… I don’t know how to say it. A good warm place.”

Shane feels tongue-tied, confused. Ilya is looking at him with such intense affection. He turns it into a joke: “Dude, it’s a high of minus six today.”

But Ilya doesn’t let him make light of it. “You know what I mean,” he says stolidly.

And Shane does. He nods. He knows that the place that made him is nothing like the place that made Ilya. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

“They are very nice, your parents.”

“Yeah. I mean, like I said, they can be a lot, but… yeah.”

“I like them.” Ilya drains the last of his hot chocolate, sighs dramatically, and then leans close. He whispers, “Would be perfect vacation, if I could just fuck their son.”

Blood rushes to Shane’s face. They’re in public! There are, like, people!

“We could get hotel room,” Ilya murmurs. His thigh is pressed against Shane’s. “I want you. I want to kiss you, undress you, see you. Lick you. Put my fingers in you.”

“Fuck, stop it, I’m getting hard.”

“Good, maybe I will beat you on the way back. So, yes? Hotel?”

“No,” says Shane. “I’ve got a better idea.”

“What is better than hotel?”

“You’ll see.”

Mom’s car isn’t at home, and Shane doesn’t know if that makes his plan better or worse, but now that he’s made up his mind he’s giddy with it. He rushes into the house—“Mom? Mom?”, but there’s no reply—and when Ilya closes the front door Shane rounds on him, pushing him back against it, kissing his plush, edible mouth, now all warm from the car. The heat of him, the bulk and the strength when he pushes back against Shane! The heart-stopping thrill of it, when their tongues touch, wet and visceral as organs! And it’s going to be his, all his, completely his.

“Empty house?” Ilya says eagerly, sliding his hands up under Shane’s coat. “How long?”

“Don’t know. So we need to be fast. Pack your bag.”

Ilya frowns. “What? Why?”

“I’m taking you to the cottage. Our cottage, our dacha.”

“But—”

“No, no buts.” Shane grabs him by the hand, tugging him through the house. “Let’s get out of here quick, before she gets back, before she argues.”

“Shane, stop. Stop. I do not want to be rude. We can go tomorrow.”

“No. No, I don’t want to waste another day. I want to—ugh, I want too much. I can’t bear being here and not being able to touch you.” They reach the guest room and Shane pushes Ilya through the doorway. “Pack!”

“They will be angry,” says Ilya.

“No, they won’t. I’ll leave a note. But we have to get going, we don’t want to drive too far in the dark.”

He pounds up the stairs, grabs his case and starts shoving clothes into it. Every sound from the street makes his heart stutter—is that her, coming home?

Book. Glasses, definitely glasses. Snow boots. Will Ilya have snow boots? There are bound to be some old ones at the cottage. The toque he bought for Ilya for Christmas but never gave him. Toiletries, that’s easy, the travel bag he brought from Montreal is right there on the edge of the sink. What else? Ilya will have lube and condoms, surely.

Downstairs, he sticks his head into the spare room. Ilya’s case isn’t packed so much as simply stuffed, and Ilya has to lean all his weight on it to close it.

“You’ve got, like, lube and stuff?” says Shane.

“Of course, Hollander, why you think I come to Canada?”

They grin at each other like naughty boys. Which they kind of are. They’re literally running away.

In the kitchen, Shane grabs a couple of shopping bags and starts raiding the pantry and fridge. He gestures to the notepad on the counter. “Write a note. Tell them you wanted to see the cottage.”

“No! You write!”

“No, you do it, they won’t be mad if it’s you. There, there’s a pen just there.”

In careful capital letters—oh god, that’s right, this isn’t even Ilya’s alphabet—Ilya composes a note. HELLO, SHANE IS TAKING US TO COTTIDGE. WAS MY IDEA. HE SAYS IS VERY NICE THERE. I HOPE THIS IS OKAY. WE WILL BE BACK

“Shane? When will we be back?”

“Your flight’s early Sunday, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“We can come back Saturday, then.”

SATURDAY. THANK YOU FOR STAY, WAS VERY GOOD. ILYA ROZANOV.

Shane smiles, unbearably charmed. Like there’s another Ilya they might mix him up with.

Today’s Tuesday.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday.

A lifetime of Ilya.

ILYA

The drive’s a couple of hours, and the afternoon’s turned dark and gloaming. Shane’s a careful driver, slower than Ilya would be, but okay, it’s cold and it could be icy and there’s no reason to rush, aside from their own impatience and the encroaching night. Shane points things out while they drive through the city, but soon it’s open road and less and less traffic and there’s not so much to see. Only snowy emptiness, a huge sky, and a feeling of freedom.

Ilya rests his hand on Shane’s solid thigh.

“Tell me about cottage.”

“For starters, it’s not spelled the way you spelled it,” says Shane.

“Oh, that is most important thing? Spelling?”

Shane huffs a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. We’ve had it for as long as I can remember. Up on the lake edge, up in Lanaudière. We always go there in summer. Not so much in winter since I got serious about hockey, and I’ve got to warn you it might be a bit cold. We’ll need to chop some wood. The fire’s good but you have to keep it going, you know?”

“Mmm,” says Ilya, fantasising about Shane and an axe. He’s doubtless extremely good at wood-chopping. It’ll be sexy as fuck. Maybe the sun will come out and Ilya can get him to do it shirtless. “Lake will be frozen?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can skate, if we clear some of it off—there’s been a bit of snow recently, so.”

“What else will we do?” says Ilya, letting his fingers creep up towards Shane’s groin.

“Stop it, I’m driving.”

“Boringgggggg.”

“I don’t want to have an accident. I want to get there in one piece. So we can…” Shane glances across at him, a small thrilled smile on his face.

“Yes. So we can stay in bed all night and day and fuck until you are begging me to stop, no more Ilya, no more, your cock is too big, your fucking is too good, I will die.”

“Not gonna happen. I reckon I can take whatever you’ve got to give.”

Ilya groans and adjusts himself in his pants, suddenly rock hard. “Drive faster, Hollander, please.”

In the console between their seats, Shane’s phone dings. The notification says it’s his mother.

“You want me to look at message?” says Ilya. “Was Yuna.”

“No.”

Ding.

Ding.

“Oh, god, alright,” says Shane.

“What is your passcode?”

Shane’s silent for a minute. “Give me the phone,” he says. “I’ll put it in.”

“No, you are driving. What, I can’t know your passcode? You are sexting other people? You have other secret people in here?”

“No, it’s just… Ugh, fine. Alright. 2481.”

Ilya is flooded with a joy so sudden and intense he fears he might be having a myocardial infarction. “Okay,” he says, very solemnly. “Two… four… eight… one… Hey, wait, Hollander, this is amazing, what’s the word when something is the same as another thing? Coincence?”

“Coincidence, and fuck you.”

“Is your number! And my number! Amazing!”

“Ilya, shut the fuck up and check the fucking messages.”

“Okay, okay!”

He reads them out.

Hi honey, this is very sudden, is everything okay?

Did Ilya not like it here? Were we a bit too much? 

“Oh, no, see—we are rude!” he cries.

I’m really sorry if we made him uncomfortable.

Ilya’s heart melts. But ding! Ding! Messages are coming in faster than Ilya can read them out.

Please drive carefully, and let me know when you get there.

One other thing, did you take the vodka? 

“Shane, did you?”

“Yes, whatever, it’s only half a bottle.”

“Hollander, that is very naughty of you,” says Ilya cheerfully. “Thank you.”

The phone dings again.

“Oh my god,” says Shane. “I’m sorry. She’s—I’m sorry.”

“No! Is very nice. Yuna says Anyway that’s fine and I hope you have a great week. What do you want me to tell her?”

“Um. Okay. How about everything’s fine, Ilya is fine, I just wanted to show him the cottage.”

“Okay,” says Ilya, thumbs flying. Ilya likes you very much, he adds.

“And tell her I’ll text when we get there. And yes, I took the vodka.”

Ilya does as he’s told and then adds, Ilya says thank you for vodka and for chicken and for Yahtzee. He had very good time in Ottawa. See you Saturday!

Shane Hollander’s fairytale life continues to live up to its reputation.

The roads get smaller, darker, more and more rural, and soon the daylight’s completely gone. They’re driving through a snowy forest, dotted on one side with occasional lights. On the other, a moonlit river glints blackly between the trees, mostly iced over. 

Eventually, just when it seems like all signs of habitation are about to disappear, Shane indicates and turns up a long, narrow driveway. In the light of his high beams, a house appears; low and plain, its wide steps leading to a porch.

“Okay,” says Shane, turning off the engine. “This is, um. This is it. I’ll leave the lights on while we unpack. Put your mittens on too, it’s cold out there.”

“Moscow, remember,” says Ilya.

“Yeah, well, Quebec. It’s—” Shane checks the dashboard of his very boring (but admittedly pretty good in the snow) car. “It’s minus twelve out there.”

This is another good thing about fairytale Canada, they use a proper temperature scale.

The ground is crunchy with frozen snow. As soon as they leave the haven of the car the air bites coldly at them. It only takes a couple of trips to take all their gear, including all the food (and vodka) inside, but it’s just as cold in there.

“I’m gonna get the heating on,” Shane says, stripping off his gloves. “But it’s gonna take a while. I’ll make a fire, too.”

The house fills quickly with the slightly burned, dusty smell of heaters turned on after a long time, and the faint crackles of expanding metal. It’s homey, full of the signs of the Hollander family and their son’s obsession with hockey. More pictures of him adorn the walls, and several framed childhood drawings. The living areas are strewn with rugs and cushions, lamps and blankets, and there’s a large stone surround on the fireplace in the living room. Right now, it’s still cold enough to see breath, but soon, Ilya’s sure, it will be warm and inviting.

“It takes a while to heat up,” says Shane, hands in his parka pockets. “Um. I should go get some wood.” He’s chewing on his bottom lip, cheeks blooming rosy from cold. Or maybe from something else.

Ilya says, “You know best way to get warm? Body heat.”

Shane smiles, suddenly shy, not looking at him. “It’s barely six o’clock. You want to go to bed? Aren’t you hungry?”

“Mmm, very. Stop talking and show me bedroom.”

There will be plenty of time later to eat, and plenty of time tomorrow to explore this place. Right now, all Ilya wants to taste and explore is the familiar, beloved territory of Shane Hollander’s body. He saunters forward, and Shane comes to him; their kiss is deep, wet and greedy even though they’re both wearing parkas, which are deeply unsexy. Shane makes that little desperate sound he makes when he’s kissed, and it goes straight through Ilya like a bolt of lightning streaking across the midnight sky, forceful and irresistible. He wants this man with every atom of his being. It’s diabolical how much he wants him. The taste of him, the smell of his skin; Ilya’s taken with the the memory of skating with him today, faster than anyone’s ever managed to skate at his side. Perfect.

Shane grabs his hand, and leads him through to the bedroom. In the dark, they stagger backwards until Ilya’s legs hit the bed and he tumbles, Shane on top of him, all sucking kisses and reaching hands until—

“Wait. Wait,” says Shane, and then his weight and warmth are gone. Ilya hears the scratch of curtains closing, and then there’s a click and a small, warm bedside light illuminates the room.

“There’s an electric blanket,” says Shane, reaching down beside the bed. “Because it’ll be cold.”

“I will warm you up,” says Ilya, and then they’re both ripping off their clothes, fast in the chilly air, and diving into the bed. The sheets are freezing and Ilya yelps, but here is Shane, all his delicious smooth warm flesh, and they wind together, arms and legs and tongues and wanting, laughing and cursing the cold.

There is no one for miles and miles. Nobody to see, nobody to hear, nobody to judge. Slowly, Ilya can feel the warmth of that electric blanket pooling beneath him, and it’s so good. They kiss and writhe and push and sigh and oh, the intensity of this desire is exquisite to the point of pain. This is, quite simply, heaven. Ilya wants, wants, wants.

“Okay,” he says, rearing back. “Lube. Bag is in living room.”

“Ugh,” says Shane. “I’ll go. Where in your bag?”

“Just bring the bag,” says Ilya, who should probably volunteer to go out there in the freezing cold stark bollocks naked; but Shane has offered, so.

Also, this way he gets to watch naked Shane run out of the room. The flex of his fabulous thighs, and the toothsome quiver of his buttocks! Fuck, he’s gorgeous! And he runs with his hands over his cock, which is so agonisingly charming Ilya feels sick with it.

He lies back, stroking himself in happy anticipation as the bed warms, and his blood too. Gospodi, this is perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Shane returns, heaving Ilya’s case onto the bed, and Ilya sits up and rifles through it, extracting the lube and condoms before dumping it back down on the floor. Shane scrambles back into bed and presses up close, chilled and demanding.

“Fuck, fuck it’s cold!”

“Not for long,” says Ilya. He pulls the bedding up over their heads, creating a dark, close cave, and kisses Shane with deep intention, licking into his lovely mouth and winding his arms around, rubbing warmth back into Shane’s body. Shane’s hand wanders down Ilya’s chest, and finds his cock. Stroking, tugging. Sliding Ilya’s foreskin back and forth. He’s interested in that, Ilya’s noticed, and that gives him delicious ideas; but those ideas need light, visibility, to be fully explored. Here in the dark, he just gives in to it.

Shane turns away, on to his side, presenting his back to Ilya.

“Do it. Please. I want it so bad. Fuck me.”

Fingers slick with lube, Ilya opens his body, slow and careful. Shane’s twisted around, so he can kiss and moan into Ilya’s mouth. He’s so flexible, so sleek, so strong, so desperately fuckable.  He opens, slowly, to Ilya’s fingers; inside he’s hot and grasping, sex incarnate.

“Ohhh, Hollander, has been too long,” Ilya mutters into Shane’s armpit, where soft dark hair traps the desperately appealing smell of him. He twists his right arm under Shane’s head and hooks his elbow around his neck, grabbing a handful of lovely meaty pectoral. He’s knuckle-deep in hot, slicked-up hole and it’s so fabulous and filthy-wicked, as is the way Shane moans and hitches his knee higher, pressing back against Ilya’s hand. Taking it, taking it, taking it. Ilya slides free and circles a fingertip, gossamer light, over the clenching rim. So delicate, so beautiful, so—

“Fucking put it in me,” growls Shane.

Ilya needs to put on a condom. Right now. But first, oh, first, he takes his cock in hand and shifts down just a little and rubs his bare cock-head over Shane’s hole. 

Oh, fuck! Fuck! A desperate sound burst out of him. It’s exquisite. He knows he can’t do that. He won’t. But oh, god, god, fuck, maybe one day.

“You need a condom,” says Shane querulously.

“Yes. Yes, I know. Just… touching,” Ilya manages. He sits up and sorts himself out, quick as he can, and then he’s back in the warmth of bed and skin and pushing in. 

One agonisingly slow, deliberate, intent thrust, as Shane pants and growls, reaching back to grab Ilya’s flexing hip, and then he’s there. In, as deep as he can go, as held as he can be, and his dick throbs with hot, eager blood.

Home. Home, in a way nobody else has ever been home. He props himself up on an elbow, and Shane gazes up at him, lips parted and red, eyes mazy. Breathing, his lovely chest expanding and contracting. His belly clenching, his asshole too, as he relaxes around the intrusion.

“Ilya,” he says in a long, low sigh. “Oh, Ilya. It’s so good. More. Please, more.”

And so Ilya gives him more, takes more, gives and takes and gives and takes, in and out and in again. Shane mewls and closes his eyes and arches his spine, inviting Ilya deeper and closer. He’s so limber that Ilya’s fucking him from behind and yet he can get his mouth on Shane’s nipple, dark and peaked with cold and desire. The taste of him, skin on tongue. The painful clutch of his fingers, urging Ilya on. Ilya could fuck this man forever and ever and ever. Shane’s hand comes up and grabs a handful of Ilya’s hair, tugging him down, crushing his face into Shane’s tit, and Ilya bites ungently, thrusts harder, faster.

“Oh fuck Ilya there, Jesus, fuck, shit, oh, oh, oh!”

As if he weren’t perfect in every other way known to man, now it turns out that Shane Hollander is kind of loud. He’s apparently been holding himself politely back, maybe worried about neighbours in hotels and apartments, but here in his safe secret place in the deepest storybook woods he’s letting everything go, and it’s beyond spectacular.

“Unh, unh, there, ohhhhh my god oh my god Ilya, touch my dick please please please,” he babbles.

Ilya is very happy to comply. Oh, the way this man leaks, so slick and eager!

“Harder. Fuck me harder, harder! Oh my god, I love your massive dick so much, it’s so—so—so good!”

Ilya has a faint sense of obligation to reciprocate all this delightful dirty talk but when he opens his mouth he finds that the carefully trained part of his brain that speaks English has gone entirely offline. All that emerges is Russian. 

“Not as good as your perfect ass,” he assures Shane. “You are so fuckable it might kill me, Hollander. Every day I want to do this. Every night. I want to live right here, shove everything I’ve got right—up—here—inside—you, so tight and hot, and I don’t want this fucking condom either, I want to fuck you raw and fill you full of come and watch it fucking leak out of you, lick it up, shove it back in, and do it again and again and again until you—’

“What? What are you saying?” Shane pants.

“I—I—oh Shane,” says Ilya feebly, and he’s so totally overcome with the idea of spilling inside Shane he loses it utterly on the next thrust and howls like a wolf, shuddering and squeezing his eyes tight shut as bliss shimmers through his blood.

He lets go of Shane’s cock. Wants—wants—

As soon as the last shudder of orgasm has wracked through him he pulls out, rolls Shane onto his back, and dives under the covers.  He shoves two fingers back into Shane’s slick, loosened body with filthy ease and at the same time takes his cock deep, right into the back of his throat. Shane howls. Ilya presses against his prostate, over and over as he bobs and sucks, and Shane’s making the most gorgeous, animal noises, his knees bent high and wide, making a tent of the blankets. His fingers twist into Ilya’s hair, holding him brutally still as he fucks up into Ilya’s mouth, and it’s less than a minute before he’s moaning and spilling and convulsing, over and over.

Shane has a sheen of sweat from his upper lip. Ilya licks it away, drowsy and soft from the intensity of his climax. He ties off the condom and tosses it on the floor.

“Yuck,” says Shane, wrinkling his nose, but he comes into Ilya’s arms anyway, resting his head on Ilya’s still-heaving chest.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Your heart is still really going.”

“Was good workout,” says Ilya.

“We need to put in some gym time tomorrow. It’s been, like, two days.”

“Or we can just fuck again.”

“Or both,” says Shane.

“Okay. Good plan.” Ilya presses a kiss to the top of Shane’s head. The electric blanket is really kicking in now. It’s almost too warm in here.

“What was all that Russian about?”

“Oof. English was too hard. I had no brain.”

“But what were you saying?”

“Very filthy things.”

“No shit. What?”

Ilya swallows. Shane’s pretty open to most things, but he’s not sure he can bring himself to repeat that now that they’re not actually in the throes. “Learn Russian, then you know.”

“Not fair.”

“Tomorrow you can do French sex talk, then it will be fair. Also very sexy, I think.”

It is much less sexy when Ilya’s stomach chooses that moment to grumble loudly. Shane laughs, and soon they’re in the kitchen, putting together sandwiches. Shane builds a fire, Ilya pours drinks; they pull the couch close to the fireplace and Ilya lies with his head on Shane’s solid, comfortable thighs, watching the flames dance. 

Sated. Blissful.

They’ve had so little time together since Russia. The transition from living in the same small room last summer, spending every day together on the same rink and in the same meeting rooms, and then suddenly being hundreds of miles away, had been intense. Ilya had worried, before this trip, that it would be weird—maybe difficult—to be back living in each other’s pockets. 

But these days at Shane’s cottage prove that it’s not. It’s just so goddamn easy. They have fun together, they have crazy good sex, and they know each other’s ways well enough, after Moscow, that it doesn’t bother Ilya when Shane gets irritable about Ilya’s dirty socks, strewn across the floor. (Ilya knew it would piss him off; Ilya literally chose that angry little feline scowl, rather than put his socks in his washing bag. He loves it.) And it doesn’t bother Shane, either, when Ilya prowls up behind him, quiet and secretive, and then abruptly shoves his cold hands up under Shane’s clothes. Well, maybe it does, but he seems pretty resigned to it, and mostly just yells and laughs and squirms and calls Ilya names, which Ilya in turn loves, so it’s all a win in the end.

Two days pass like that, easeful, delightful. The house has warmed up, and yes, Shane cuts more wood, and yes, he is extremely impressive doing it. The sun came out on the second day, and Ilya convinced him to do it shirtless, which was… an exceptionally good show. Well, not so much convinced as bribed with promises of excessive sexual favours, which actually Ilya would’ve bestowed upon him regardless, but it worked, anyway.

Also, because Shane is a good and responsible rookie, they spend a couple of hours every day on weights, which are set up in part of the (unheated, appallingly cold) garage, and on a run through the woods, where winding paths are soft with pine-needles and clumps of snow. This place is doing nothing at all to disprove Ilya’s imaginative theory that Shane is the prince of a fairytale kingdom. It’s gorgeous. The lake is lovely too, a rough frozen expanse; they shovel off the top layer of soft snow, get down to ice, and spend happy hours playing one-on-one, fast and vicious, in a space not much bigger than the Hollanders’ backyard rink.

They drive into the nearest small town, and stock up on more food. Ilya buys snacks, Shane buys vegetables, and they mock each other mercilessly for their choices, eventually agreeing to disagree on the basis that whatever they’re doing, it’s clearly working for both of them. Shane cooks simple, healthy meals each night, and Ilya sits at the kitchen table watching him, and relentlessly chirping him. Telling him stories about the Raiders, and Shane tells him all about the Metros, too.

“Hard to believe we did it, sometimes,” says Shane on Friday, which has arrived far faster than it should have, some sort of temporal acceleration having eaten into their days together. He’s smiling as he stirs a big pot full of something he is referring to as chilli but which Ilya knows for a fact is entirely missing the con carne part of that recipe. “Like, so much has happened in six or seven months, you know? Since we first met?”

“I was not even sure I would be in draft,” says Ilya, grimacing at the recollection of that period of uncertainty.

“No way. You were always going to make it. You’re obviously one of the best.”

“Mmm. But my elbow was pretty bad for a while.”

“Yeah? But it’s all good now, right? What happened?”

“Was stupid. Motorbike accident.”

Shane looks absolutely horrified. “Ilya! What the fuck, a motorbike? Those things are—”

“FUN,” says Ilya loudly. “They are fun, Hollander.”

“Not so much fun it would be worth risking your career,” mutters Shane, angry and kittenish for about the sixth time that day. Ilya might have to buy a motorbike just for the pleasure of Shane’s pretty rage.

“Does not matter now. I am fine, we did great, we are going to have spectacular careers and get very fucking rich.”

“And win the Stanley Cup.”

“Well. Me, probably. You, hmm, maybe.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yes, that too. We are going to do lots and lots and lots of that,” says Ilya cheerfully, raising his beer bottle in a toast.

Shane clinks his bottle against Ilya’s, then turns the stove down, and comes to join him at the table. He swallows, and doesn’t meet Ilya’s eyes for a moment; this, Ilya knows, means he has Something To Say. He’s almost been expecting this; today was their last full day together, and tomorrow they have to return to Ottawa. So he waits, quietly, to see what conclusions have formed in Shane’s overactive brain.

Shane clears his throat. “So, um,” he says. “So we have to head back tomorrow, huh.”

“Yes. Booo. Would be better to stay here until we die. But, you know. Still need to become rich and famous hockey stars, so.”

“Yeah. But, um. I just want to check that you do still want to, like, keep doing… this?”

“Fucking?”

“I mean, sure, that. But. This.”

There is no doubt in Ilya’s mind on this issue, but maybe Shane is rethinking things. Fuck it. Ilya’s putting his cards on the table. “Yes,” he says baldly. “Do you?”

“Yeah! Yeah, totally. But, um. I just want to check that it wasn’t too much, all the… meeting Mom and Dad and stuff?”

Ilya shrugs. “No. They are nice, and they don’t know we are…” He waves a hand, vaguely, between them. “They don’t know this. So is fine.”

“Okay. Okay, good, I thought I might’ve, you know. Put you off.”

“Put me off?”

Shane shrugs, embarrassed. “I thought afterwards it might’ve all been too much, you know? Like, I know this is supposed to be just a, a, a casual thing. I know you like girls, and I know we can’t, um, officially, whatever. Like, I get it. I don’t want you to think I don’t get it.”

He still can’t look at Ilya. He’s drinking that beer much faster than he usually does. And his cheeks have gone pink. Ilya’s heart fills, heavy and warm.

“Hollander,” he says. “Shane. Shane, look at me.”

Dark eyes meet his. Careful and anxious and so, so, so beautiful.

“You are not just a casual fuck to me,” says Ilya, entirely unplanned, not having thought it through at all; simply tearing his chest open and exposing his glistening, beating heart, right there, like an idiot, at the kitchen table. The words fall out and when he hears them he understands, fully, how true they are, and how perilous. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. He’s a moron. What the fuck is wrong with him?

But it’s too late now. He’s said it, and he’s not going to take it back. “You are… I don’t know,” he says. “But you are more than that. Special.”

There’s a silence that lasts approximately ten thousand years. This is literally the most stupid, dangerous, potentially destructive thing that Ilya Rozanov has ever done, and given the multitude of stupid, dangerous, and potentially destructive things he’s clocked up so far in life that is really saying something. He opens his mouth again, brain churning for something, anything, that will make it less significant. “I mean,” he mumbles.

“No, same,” says Shane, and immediately Ilya can breathe again, even as he plummets a thousand feet into the bottomless depths of those shiny brown eyes. “And I know that’s stupid, and kind of irresponsible. I know it can’t really be. But I…” He looks away again. “Yeah. This is special to me. And I don’t want to fuck it up. Sometimes I kind of go all in on things, you know, and then it… then it fucks things up.”

“You didn’t fuck it up,” says Ilya. He slides off his chair, onto his knees, between Shane’s thighs, and cups Shane’s jaw in his hand. “It’s good. It’s all good. You and me, this week, this… thing. It’s all good, yes?”

Shane turns his face and presses a kiss to Ilya’s palm. “So good,” he says, a soft croak.

“Okay, then,” says Ilya. “Okay.”

“Okay,” says Shane. He smiles tightly, nods.

In the living room, his phone starts to ring.

“Shit,” he says. “That’s mom’s ringtone. Sorry, I should—”

“Yes, go,” says Ilya, sitting back in his chair.

“Can you watch that chilli? I don’t want it to burn on the bottom.”

“Nobody likes a burned bottom,” Ilya calls after him. He feels slightly hysterical with relief. 

God, where did that admission come from? Deep down, that’s for sure. And yet, it feels so good to have it out there in the open. And Shane… Shane feels the same.

Wonderful. Terrifying. Impossible. What the fuck are they supposed to do with this admission, huh? He’s got no idea. But they’ll figure it out, somehow.

He sighs deeply, picks up the wooden spoon and stirs the chilli, which hasn’t burned at all. Ilya is not much of a cook but he does like stirring. It makes him feel constructive and helpful. He peers at the rice and briefly considers lifting the lid to check if it’s done, but then remembers being told off in no uncertain terms for doing that the other night. There’s some cheese, and a grater on the cutting board beside the stove; Shane is generally stingy with dairy products, so Ilya takes the opportunity to grate a more suitable quantity for two professional athletes. 

Shane is still in the living room, his voice a low mumble. Ilya gets bowls and cutlery and another beer. He hums to himself as he puts salt and pepper and grated cheese on the table, and finds the woven mats to put the hot pans on. He has told Shane that he is special, and more, and Shane feels the same way in return. He is absurdly happy. 

When he looks up, Shane’s standing in the doorway, looking a little taken aback. Ilya grins, satisfied that his domestic efforts have been remarked upon and appreciated.

“Dinner is ready,” he announces, as if he made the whole thing, rather than having spent one minute stirring and one more grating cheese.

But Shane stands in the doorway, his phone still in his hand, blinking and swallowing.

“What?” says Ilya.

“I think… I think maybe she knows.”

Chapter 10: In Which Ilya Rozanov Enjoys His Last Night At The Cottage

Chapter Notes

Plot? Never heard of her.

ILYA

That doesn’t make sense. How could Yuna know?

Shane sits down heavily, chewing on his lower lip.

“What do you mean?” Ilya demands. “What did she say?”

A shrug. “I don’t know, it was just…”

“Just what?”

Ilya’s heart is beating very loudly in his ears. Parents cannot know about this. They cannot. They cannot. That would be… very bad. His father’s face is flashing in front of his eyes and it is deeply unenjoyable. Imagine, just imagine it! Holy fuck, what a disaster! “Shane. Hollander. What did she say?”

“It was… weird. She was asking about the week and all, and whether we were having a good time, but it was…” He shakes his head. “It was like she was talking about you like you were, you know. My girlfriend, or whatever.”

“Boyfriend,” says Ilya scratchily.

“She was all, is Ilya sleeping okay and have you shown Ilya the vacation photo albums and I hope you kept the fire going so Ilya isn’t cold.”

“So? She likes me,” says Ilya.

“No, I mean yeah, sure, but then she said… how lucky I am to have met you.”

“Is true.”

“It’s not what you say about a friend,” says Shane fractiously. “It’s weird. It was like she was… waiting for me to say something, you know?”

Honestly, this does not sound nearly as problematic as Ilya had feared at first. This sounds like typical Hollander over-analysis. Yuna has not said anything at all! He is greatly cheered. “So she did not say Oh no, that terrible hot man has turned our son gay, come home at once my precious angel?”

That makes Shane’s eyes crinkle up a little. “No. Nothing like that.”

“She did not say, Shane you must be honest with me, is that big nasty Russian fucking you?”

And that makes Shane smile. “No, Jesus, you’re gross.”

Ilya lifts his eyebrows. “Then so what? Come on, time for delicious chilli-no-carne.”

Shane sighs, and starts to serve rice, then pauses.

“That is a disgusting amount of cheese,” he says mournfully.

It’s their last night at the cottage. To celebrate, Ilya decides not to waste that stolen vodka, and Shane insists on making a fire in a brazier outside on the porch. It is minus ten and this proposal is frankly insane, but Ilya has another shot of vodka and humours him. The sky above is immense, a spangled velvety expanse of frozen air; Shane brings blankets and insists on gloves, scarves, hats, parkas, and very close huddling on the swing seat.

“We always do this,” he says. “It’s, like, a tradition.”

“Am sure it is lovely. In summer,” says Ilya, through a foggy cloud of his own breath.

“Well, okay, yeah. And we usually do marshmallows, but I didn’t bring any.”

“You would eat marshmallows?”

“Eh, probably not. They’re just sugar.”

“Maybe next time. In summer,” says Ilya, shoving his frozen nose into the crook of Hollander’s neck, where he has somehow managed to retain a tiny remnant of heat.

They’re quiet for a minute, as the flames pop and crackle.

“Next time?” says Shane. “You reckon there’ll be a next time?”

Ilya shrugs. “If you want.”

“Won’t you have to go back to Russia? In summer?”

“Yes, but not whole time, maybe.”

Shane sighs and pokes a stick through the brazier’s bars, sending up sparks. “I know this sounds dumb, but… when I look ahead in time, it’s always been about the next game, the next season, the next training camp, whatever. But the last few months it’s like I count time by… by the next time when I can see you.”

He turns, looks at Ilya. So honest, so open, so… so fucking lovely. Ilya feels weak with it. 

It’s so big, this feeling he’s been having, and so terribly, terrifyingly inconvenient. He is really not supposed to be feeling this. He is supposed to be having fun naughty sex with this pretty Canadian boy. It is supposed to be very very wicked and bad and consequently amusing. It is supposed to be an evilly delicious little cherry on top of his fabulous rich hockey star life of winning and money and girls and fun.

But somehow it is not the cherry on top. It’s the whole goddamn parfait. 

He didn’t mean for this to happen. But it has, it fucking has. He’s in so much trouble.

“So romantic. Maybe your mother is right, Hollander,” he says, trying desperately for lightness. “Maybe you do want me to be your girlfriend.”

“Ugh, god, fuck you.” Shane scowls at the flames.

“But also,” says Ilya, shrugging in his parka, “… also… okay, me too.”

“You too what?”

“I look out to the next time I see you.”

“Yeah?”

Oh, god, his smile; the way it produces two tiny dimples, up there on his cheekbones!

“Yes,” says Ilya. “But if we do not go inside soon, the next time you see me I will be a frozen icicle man.”

“You’re such a baby.”

“I am not! I’m an ice hockey player from fucking Russia and this is still fucking cold, Hollander!”

“Come on, then. Let’s go inside and I’ll… find some way to warm you up.”

Shane Hollander seldom says such flirtatious things. Ilya scrunches up his nose, delighted. “Oh? And how will you do that?”

He only says it to flirt back, to tease, but to his surprise, Shane squirms a little. “I have some… ideas,” he says. “I bought you, um, a gift. A couple of gifts, actually.”

“Hollander! You have been holding out on me! Give!”

“Inside,” says Shane, standing up and holding out a gloved hand.

He leads Ilya through to the bedroom, after a brief stop in the mudroom to get rid of their excessive layers. The curtains are drawn—Shane does this religiously as soon as the sun goes down, conserving heat—and the bedside light is on. Ilya sits cross-legged on the bed, hands out in supplication. “Give,” he says again, grinning.

“Okay, well,” says Shane, rootling around in the end pocket of his bag. “This one was kind of for Christmas because I didn’t know if you were going to send me anything, so I got you this, but you didn’t, so I hung onto it, but I guess it’s silly not to give it to you.”

He hands over a small, wrinkled parcel. The paper is covered in candy canes and Ilya has to swallow hard, berating himself for not having anything to give in return, until he remembers Christmas day. “Good thing I already gave you your gift,” he says, with a wink. 

Shane’s mouth twitches. “It was a good one, for sure.”

The only gift Ilya got at Christmas was the jokey Secret Santa at Paulie and Suze’s house. A leopard-print mankini, which amused everyone no end, but which was functionally useless. (He tested this already, trying it on when he got home, but it turned out that even Ilya Rozanov could not make that thing sexy. A grave disappointment. But he still might strut around in it for Shane’s amusement, one of these days.) And his new phone, but that didn’t count because he bought it himself and didn’t even wrap it. This is the only real one. So he opens it slowly, one piece of tape at a time until Shane is groaning.

“God, do you have to make such a production out of it? Just tear it!”

“No,” says Ilya, carefully unfolding the triangular corners.

It’s a beanie, the softest, mistiest blue wool.

“I thought,” says Shane. “It’s like, um.” He gestures at Ilya. “Matches your eyes, kinda.”

Right now Ilya’s eyes might actually have tears in them. He strokes the hat, blinking. “I love it,” he says, his voice a little rough. “Here. Come here.”

Shane sits on the bed, and accepts Ilya’s soft thank-you kiss. Enjoyable as it is to kiss, however, Ilya knows there is another present waiting for him, so he doesn’t draw it out.

“What is other one?” he says.

Shane goes a little red. “Um. That one’s a bit, um. I don’t really know if you’re going to want it. Maybe I’ll give it to you later.”

“How much later? Is already our last night,” Ilya argues. Looking at the blush creeping down Shane’s throat, he is beginning to have certain suspicions about this second gift.

“Yeah, but. Ugh. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than a leopard-print mankini?”

“Than a what?”

“Never mind. Will it be less embarrassing if we are in bed and naked?”

“Maybe,” says Shane, his lips twitching.

“Okay, then!” says Ilya cheerfully, and he jumps off the bed, strips off all his clothes extremely rapidly, and climbs in, adjusting the new beanie on his curls.

“Oh my god,” says Shane. “You are so ridiculous.”

“Ach, you like it.”

Shane sighs, and looks at him with the greatest of fondness. “Whatever,” he says. He puts the little box on the bedside table and pulls off his hoodie, far too fast.

“Hey, slow down,” says Ilya, propping his head on one hand and grinning evilly. “Let me watch.”

“You didn’t slow down!”

“You didn’t ask me to. Stand there. Okay. Now your pants.”

Obedient as ever, Shane pulls his sweatpants down and steps out of them, then just stands there, hands at his sides, waiting for instruction. God, Ilya loves the way he does this. He’s so determined and opinionated the rest of the time, but in the bedroom? He just gives himself over to Ilya, and it’s a gorgeous fucking power trip.

“Socks,” says Ilya.

“It’s cold, can’t I—”

“No! Socks.”

They come off and are placed tidily on top of his folded pants.

“Mmm. T-shirt. Slowly, please.”

Anyone else would hold it at the hem and tauntingly lift it. Shane grabs it at the back of his neck and pulls it up from there and Ilya is so agonisingly fond, just watching that, that he feels dizzy. There Shane stands, gleaming pale gold in the lamplight, sweetly pigeon toed, with his muscled legs and his sleek torso and his big, solid arms and shoulders. His nipples are peaked in the faint chill. His cock is already filling out nicely in his grey boxer briefs.

“Getting hard for me already?”

“Well. Yeah.”

“Good. Come here.” Ilya beckons Shane forward, and shuffles to the side of the bed, sitting up until his face is level with Shane’s groin. He purses his lips and blows a kiss into the space between them. As he watches, a dark wet mark appears, spreading, magic.

And they haven’t even touched yet, not with any intention.

Hollander is a fucking miracle. Also a menace to Ilya’s sanity.

He leans forward without further ado, fastens his open mouth over the fat bulge, and blows hot air through the fabric. Shane hisses through his teeth as the heat intensifies, and grabs a handful of Ilya’s hair.

“Whoa, shit, that feels good. Do that again.”

“Say please,” growls Ilya, narrowing his eyes.

“Really?”

Ilya lifts his eyebrows, like,  You’re gonna argue? Now?

“Fuck, alright, please. Please, Ilya.”

Well, since he asked so nicely. Ilya does it again, and Shane’s cock twitches. Mouthing at it, Ilya works his way up to the fabric covered head, then slides his fingertips inside the elastic waistband of Shane’s briefs and and wriggles it down until his perfect, ruddy tip emerges. Almost instantly, another bead of pre-come wells, and Ilya sighs in delight, licking it up with pointed tongue. He pushes Shane’s briefs down his gorgeous grabbable thighs and nuzzles into his crotch, squeezing big handfuls of his lovely ass cheeks. God, how’s Ilya going to survive without this for all the long, lonely weeks ahead? When’s their next game, again—some time in February? It’s weeks away, weeks! It’ll fucking kill him!

“Can I get in the bed, now? Please?”

Ilya’s a reasonable man, and not opposed to writhing naked with Shane Hollander. He drags Shane down on top of himself, so he can continue his preparatory ass-groping while maximising skin contact and also kissing.  Shane spreads his legs invitingly, and Ilya runs his fingertips down the crack of his ass, all the way to his balls, fondling gently. He needs some slick, he needs to get in there. Stupid of him not to have it to hand. He reaches out, straining for the nightstand’s drawer, but he can’t reach.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Need lube. Need to get inside you, Shane.”

“Yeah. Yeah, but also… hang on… I think, maybe… can I give you that present now?”

Shane wriggles off, grabs the box and lies down beside Ilya, depositing it on Ilya’s chest.

“Now?” says Ilya, who really wants to get on with the fucking.

“Yeah. Go on. Open it.”

When Ilya turns his head, Shane’s right there beside him on the pillow. He’s biting his lip, eyes bright with lust and mischief. Totally irresistible.

With exacting, deliberately irritating slowness, Ilya begins his unwrapping.

“Oh my god, just do it,” Shane groans, arching his neck backwards and rolling his eyes.

“Shush. I am appreciating my gift.”

“Honestly, you might hate it.”

Oh? Oh.

Ilya opens the paper (more candy canes) to reveal… some sort of sex toy.  L-shaped, black, faintly menacing. Shane scratches gently, anxiously, at the hair beneath Ilya’s navel.

“It’s, um,” he says. “I mean, for…”

“For my ass?”

“Well, you said nobody had. And I… I mean, it’s just so fucking good, you know, and I didn’t want you to miss out. And maybe you don’t particularly want to be fucked, and that’s cool, that’s fine, but I thought maybe… you’d like to, you know. Feel it.”

Ilya is feeling a lot. Thrill, nerves. A weird sort of social pressure. “You like this?” he says, opening the box and taking the thing out, freeing it from its clean plastic prison. It’s… bulbous. Not huge though, so that’s probably good?

“Yeah. I mean…” Shane huffs out a laugh. “I mean, I don’t get to see you that often, so sometimes I…”

“You have this?”

“I have… some stuff, yeah. And this one is, you know, easy. Good.”

“Oh, you don’t think I can do the big toys?”

“I bet you could,” says Shane, eyes glazing even further. He nuzzles against Ilya’s neck. “I bet it would be crazy fucking hot. Your ass is…”

“Spectacular, I know.”

“Yeah. But for a starter, this is good. So… you want to try it? You don’t have to.”

Okay. Okay, fuck it, why not? Why not try something new? A sudden flush of adrenaline has Ilya lurching out of the bed, striding across the room.

“Where are you going?” Shane calls plaintively.

“Shower.”

“You showered this morning, it’s okay, you don’t need to—”

“Will be quick,” Ilya promises, heart hammering.

He is quick, but also thorough. Shit. Fuck. He doesn’t generally think too much about this. Shane is always so delicious and does all that sort of thinking for him. It’s not that Ilya’s dirty, it’s just… yeah. This is a scary thing to try alongside the world’s most prodigiously talented and gorgeous bottom. It’s not a competition (and if it were, Shane would obviously win) but still. This is making Ilya feel more than a little bit self-conscious.

It’s also making him feel kind of… Russian. Russia is weird about this. Yeah, the homophobia is pervasive back home, and getting worse. But it’s also way more judgemental about guys who take it. Ilya’s always been weirdly comfortable with his flexible sexuality, but the fact is that his personal role in his many and varied encounters has been pretty consistent. He’s the one doing the penetrating, one way or another. Which is still, like, manly, right?

But Shane manages to stay super masculine when he’s whining and wriggling on Ilya’s dick. There’s nothing feminine about the way he shoves Ilya down and climbs on top of him. It can totally be done. Yeah.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Okay, okay.” He towels off quickly and glares at himself in the mirror. “Is easy,” he says. “Even fucking Sasha could do this. Relax, Rozanov. Will be interesting.”

Shane’s sitting up in the bed, sheets around his hips. “You sure you want to?” he asks, as Ilya joins him. “Seriously, no pressure.”

“No, I want.”

A lopsided grin. “I promise I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, I know so.”

“C’mere.”

Shane tugs him down, face to face. He strokes down Ilya’s flank and down the back of his thigh, encouraging Ilya’s knee up and over Shane’s waist.

“If you don’t like anything, just say. I won’t mind, honest. I only want… I only want you to feel what I feel, because fuck, Ilya, it’s so crazy good. I swear.”

“I know about the prostate, Shane,” says Ilya, taking refuge in his Big Tough Sarcastic Russian persona. “I have noticed you like it, malysh.”

“Mal—what does that mean?”

“Means person who should stop talking and kiss the man he’s about to do this thing to,” says Ilya, shutting Shane up with a fierce, adrenaline-fuelled kiss and hitching his knee even higher. He can feel Shane smiling into the kiss, reading him like a book, the wretch; his big hand caresses Ilya’s thigh, and up, over the swell of his ass. His palm circles, the gentle pressure spreading Ilya’s cheeks apart, and then the softest touch of his little finger dips in between, petal soft, and strokes Ilya’s rim.

It’s fucking crazy that in all these months, he’s never done that before. Ilya’s almost climbed inside Shane, but in return? This butterfly touch is the most they’ve ever done where Ilya’s ass is concerned.

It’s nice. Delicate. There are a lot of nerves there, Ilya knows. He cups the back of Shane’s neck, massaging his thumb into the dip behind his ear, and kisses him, running his tongue along the wet fleshy inside of Shane’s upper lip. Shane doesn’t push inside, doesn’t try anything; just circles, and hums into the kiss, arching his spine so his belly pushes against Ilya’s. He’s hard; Ilya’s not fully, not yet. Too much weird anticipation in him.

“Tell me,” he whispers. “What it feels like.”

“It’s weird, at first, okay? There’s a lot of stretch. But we’ll go slow.”

“Okay. Come on. Do it.”

Shane’s hand retreats. He lubes his fingers liberally and then returns. Cool, slick, slippery, still feather soft. Almost a tickle.

“You feel so good,” Shane mutters. “I wish I could see, but also… I want to look at your face.”

It might in fact be easier to bury his burning face in the kindly secrecy of a pillow, but Ilya nods. He’d be a hypocrite to object, considering how much he adores staring at Shane while he shoves inside him.

“Good. Then I’ll know if you’re okay.”

“Of course I will be okay. Christ, Hollander, is only sticking something up my butt, lots of people do this. Stop treating me like a little ki—i—id,” says Ilya, his voice raising to a squeak as Shane, with the utmost care and delicacy, inserts a finger. 

Ilya knows his eyes have gone very wide. It doesn’t hurt, but that is one weird sensation. It feels deeply ill-advised and yet staggeringly intimate. He swallows as Shane moves gently, tenderly, out and in and around in seeking circles.

“Okay?”

Ilya grunts and nods and reaches down to take hold of Shane’s rigid cock as a reminder that Shane loves this. It helps. Shane’s cock, as always, is stiff as anything and hot and sleek and fucking gorgeous. Ilya mentally conjures positions in which he could have this in his mouth while Shane continues his explorations, but they all violate the I want to see your face request, so he satisfies himself with rubbing his thumb over the slit, enjoying the slip of it. Between their bodies, Shane reaches down with his left hand and does the same in return, coaxing Ilya to full enthusiasm with reliable skill.

“That’s it, baby,” Shane mutters.

Baby.

He’s never called Ilya that before. Ilya instantly fucking loves it.

“Okay,” says Shane, soft and encouraging, pumping his finger in and out in slow rhythm. “Okay, so somewhere—round—here—oh, yeah, that, do you feel—”

“Yes,” squeaks Ilya, as something tingles, almost like the harbinger of a very different bodily function.

“Mmm. Yeah. That. So just relax, shhh, just…”

Shane leans in and kisses him, sweet and wet. His tongue strokes Ilya’s, in time with his finger stroking inside and his other hand sliding gently up and down Ilya’s cock. Over and over and over, and that tingle shivers and builds, warm in Ilya’s core. Yeah. Yeah, okay, this isn’t bad. This is… kinda nice, actually. He might be kind of good at this! He really might!

The intruding finger withdraws. Shane’s hand emerges from the blankets.

“You wanna try it, now? You don’t have to. But you did so good. You feel so good, Ilya, you feel… I’ve never…”

“Yes. I try.”

As Shane coats the toy liberally, Ilya pushes the blankets away, suddenly too hot, his heart pounding. He thinks about what it would be like to push something like this into Shane’s willing body, and he’s suddenly perfectly desperate to do that. Imagine if—

“Do you have other things here?” he blurts. “For—for you?”

Shane licks his lip, goes bright red. “This isn’t about me. I’m trying to do something for you.”

“Yes, yes, is very good, but fuck, now I want…” Ilya clutches at Shane’s ass, sliding a fingertip in between, and then gasps as he touches something rubbery. Hard.

“The fuck, Shane, is that—”

“Yeah.” Shane’s nostrils flare. “I put it in while you were showering. Wanted to be, you know. Ready.”

“Is, like, plug?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Ilya’s chest is about to explode with lust. Shane, Shane, Shane! He’s so fucking fabulous! “You touch me so slow, so careful, and whole time you have that in your ass?”

“Yeah, but can we focus on you for one minute, please?”

“You will kill me. You are unbelievable. I fucking love it,” says Ilya, now feeling absolutely feral with lust and capable of just about anything. “Do it, Hollander. Put that thing in me.”

“Okay, well, I was thinking… Here, roll onto your back, and then…”

Shane gets a pillow under Ilya’s hips, lays him out with bent, spread knees. Ilya lets him because every move Shane makes, Ilya now knows he’s making with a plug up his ass and it’s making him insane. His cock is leaking almost as much as Shane’s does. He’s so wildly distracted that he’s barely thinking about what Shane’s about to do to him.

Shane kneels between Ilya’s thighs, a red stain spreading down his throat and chest. He cups Ilya’s balls out of the way with one hand and gently presses the head of the toy against him; then leans down and licks wetly at Ilya’s cock. Ilya lifts it, presents it, and Shane takes him in his mouth at the same time as he pushes the toy inside. Just like Ilya did to him, back in Balashikha. 

Oh. Oh fuck, it feels much bigger than—Ilya forces himself to relax, to bear down, and then it’s done, it’s in, and Shane’s mouth is hot and wet and gorgeous and Shane has a toy up his ass and so does Ilya and then Shane wriggles the thing a little. Ilya’s mouth falls open.

Shane’s eyes crinkle up. He lifts his eyebrows. Good, right?

“Yes, yes, okay, more,” gabbles Ilya, and then he lies back like some sort of princess and lets Shane pleasure him, over and over and over again. Warm, shimmering, deep in his penetralia. 

He throws his forearms up over his eyes and concentrates on feeling it all; Shane’s clever, taunting mouth on his cock, hot and wet and incessant, suction and rhythm and tongue, and at the same time this weird, good feeling building more and more and more as the firm, gentle head of that thing rolls against him. Shane’s free hand is roaming over Ilya’s thigh, up over his hip, stroking up towards his chest, and Ilya is weak with pleasure and gratitude.

Nobody has ever done anything like this for him before. He’s had so many bedmates, and none of them, not one, has ever done what Shane is doing or been what Shane is. 

Shane hums around Ilya’s cock, and then with a wet sucking sound lets him go.

“What?” says Ilya, craning his neck to see what’s up. Shane wipes saliva off his chin with the back of his hand and his expression is alive with mischief.

“Okay so far?” he says.

“Yes. I am good at this, I think,” says Ilya.

“Want to try something a little more advanced?”

Ilya narrows his eyes in suspicion; Shane reaches across the bed and flourishes a small black thing. Is that—is that a remote?

“It might be too much,” Shane says, and Ilya can see the second thoughts galloping through that pretty head. “Yeah, no, maybe not.”

“No! Do it!”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, fuck!”

Shane’s thumb twitches, and vibrations inside Ilya’s ass suddenly set off a psychedelic ripple that echoes through his body, pulsing out a kaleidoscope of sensations. Ilya lets out a ragged yelp, and it stops instantly.

Before Shane’s had a chance to say a word, Ilya croaks, “More.”

“Yeah? Okay,” says Shane, his voice full of smiles, and then it’s happening again and Shane’s sucking him again, and Ilya’s thighs are quivering, jerking, there’s a shuddering up and down his spine and that warm tingle is building like magma in a volcano.

He knows it’s going to be one of the more explosive orgasms of his life, and holy fuck, it really is. It goes on and on, pulse after pulse of glittery bliss surging from deep inside as fireworks burst redly against the back of his eyelids. Another. Another.

Another.

The toy stills. Shane’s mouth stops working him, then slowly releases him.

“Holy fucking fuck,” says Ilya, awed. That was stupidly good.

It feels almost as weird when Shane takes the thing out of him as it had felt going in. Limp and wrung out, Ilya knows he’s in no position right now to give Shane the fucking he’s apparently prepared for, and he feels kind of bad about that, but on the other hand, the whole world feels warm and gold as Shane crawls up over him and leans down, sucking Ilya’s lower lip into his mouth and slowly releasing it.

“Good, huh?”

“Euh, okay, I guess,” says Ilya, making a moue, and Shane shakes with silent laughter.

“Anyway,” Ilya continues, reaching down to the crack of Shane’s ass and tapping on the end of that plug, “is your turn now. But I am…” He grimaces.

“That’s okay.” Shane grinds his erection into Ilya’s stomach. “How about I fuck your mouth, and we leave this in, just in case you get in the mood again later?”

“Later?”

“We’ve got all night, haven’t we?”

Yeah. One more night. One more long, dark, northern night. Ilya’s not going to waste a single minute of it.

Chapter 11: In Which llya Rozanov is Pushed Beyond His Limits

SHANE

They’ve been at the cottage long enough that Shane’s body clock has adjusted beyond his usual early wake-up time. Well, maybe it’s that, and maybe it’s the fact that last night they messed about for hours, first with that (very successful, he thinks) gift he gave Ilya and then, later, when they’d both recovered, the most drawn-out and delectable fucking. It was certainly enough to make anyone need some deep restorative sleep, anyway, and he sleeps long enough that the sun’s well up, peeking through the curtains, when Ilya’s stirring wakes him.

“Mmmf. Eugh. Shane. Malysh, you’re drooling on me,” Ilya mumbles.

Embarrassingly, this turns out to be true. Shane has been using Ilya’s broad shoulder as a pillow and has left a trail of glistening dribble down the side of his chest. He grunts, wipes his mouth, and cleans Ilya with the sheet.

“Huh. Sorry.”

“Is okay, I make your mouth water. I understand.”

“Shut up,” says Shane, affectionately, and cranes up for a morning kiss. Ilya rolls towards him, gathering him close, and twines their legs together. He’s so warm and yeasty in the mornings, a lovely animal smell of sex and closeness, so good that Shane doesn’t even mind the mustiness of his breath. His lips are still as soft, his enclosing arms still as silky-skinned and strong.

“You feeling okay?” Shane murmurs, kissing Ilya’s cheekbone, his eye-socket, his eyebrow, his temple. 

“Mmm.”

“Everywhere?”

Ilya makes an exasperated sound. “What, you think I can’t take one small dildo? One small finger?”

“My fingers aren’t very small.”

“Smaller than my dick. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah. But I’m used to it.”

“Yes. You can take it. You can take anything. Prodigy.”

“Mmm.” Shane rocks them both gently, holding on. Holding on, for this last morning together. They kiss, soft and without much intention; it’s nice, kissing for its own sake. Ilya’s such a lovely kisser, his mouth so plump and gorgeous; his top lip does stupid things to Shane. The crazy angle of his cupid’s bow and the way it perches there, pointed and pretty. He’s such a solid, masculine person, and yet this mouth is pure art. Shane adores it.

He adores everything about Ilya Rozanov. There’s no denying it. He’s sick with how much he loves Ilya’s mouth, and his curls, and the moles that scatter over his clotted-cream skin, and the breadth of his chest, and his rosy nipples; and the golden hair on his sculpted thighs, and the dark hair that leads down his belly and clusters around his perfect cock. All of it. All of it. And then, yeah, that cock, with its sliding foreskin, soft as vellum.

He reaches down and gently cups it, rolling the foreskin up and down. Not squeezing, not trying to get him erect. Just playing.

“Already, greedy boy?”

“No. No, I just… I want to touch.”

“Mmm.” Ilya’s big hand cups Shane the same, fingers curling around Shane’s balls. “I like yours, too.”

“Even though it hasn’t got this?”

“Is pretty. Is, um. Smoooooooth,” says Ilya, drawling the word, dragging it out.

“Does it feel very different, do you think? For you, being uncut?”

Ilya wriggles his other hand free from under Shane’s shoulders, reaching down and nudging Shane’s hand out of the way. “Here,” he says. “Feel.”

They’re both swelling gently.

“Nooo, you’re getting hard again, Hollander?” Ilya taunts, grinning. “You are impossible. So demanding.”

But how’s Shane supposed to not get hard, when Ilya’s lining their cocks up, tip to tip, and rolling his foreskin forward, stretching it around Shane? The skin slides, fine and velvety, and Shane sucks in a massive breath. He can feel the pressure of Ilya’s fingers, and the slip of skin, and Ilya’s cockhead squeezed tight alongside his own in this delicate sleeve, and it moves, it strokes him and holds him. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to calm his body down, but he’s not doing a very good job.

“I can’t help it,” he says honestly. “Fuck. Mmm. Oh. Oh!” It’s getting tighter as they get harder, and he’s worried, he doesn’t want to hurt Ilya, but damn, it’s so nice. It’s almost, maybe, like penetrating someone except it’s only shallow and it’s more like being… encompassed. Swallowed. Whatever it is, he likes it. A lot. But Ilya’s also failing the don’t-get-hard test and it feels like there’s less and less of this glorious skin to play with every second.

He opens his eyes, and Ilya’s gazing at him, sleepy-eyed, mesmerised. “So pretty, my Shane. You are sure you don’t want to fuck?”

It’s tempting, really fucking tempting, but if he’s honest Shane’s a little tender from last night; and besides, they’ve got a lot of work to do and a long drive ahead, and he doesn’t want to get home and walk into the house like he’s been on horseback for days.

He’s got another idea, though. Ilya (and his cock) fill Shane with ideas. He stretches across Ilya’s body and grabs the lube from the nightstand.

“Give me. I will do it,” says Ilya eagerly, but Shane bats his hand away. 

“No, not that. Something else.” 

He reaches down and liberally coats his inner thighs, then rolls onto his stomach.

“Lie on me,” he tells Ilya, and Ilya doesn’t need to be asked twice. He understands instantly. Heavy and gloriously deadweight, he presses Shane down into the mattress, his cock pushing in between Shane’s closed, squeezing thighs. His breath is hot on the top of Shane’s spine, and he hooks his hands under Shane’s armpits, holding him close and secure.

“Mmmm, fuck, that is so nice,” he mutters, thrusting gently. “Very good idea. Your fucking thighs, Hollander! So big. So hard.”

Shane grunts his pleasure and shoves his lube-slick hand down to his cock, gripping tight. He doesn’t have to do a damn thing; every time Ilya thrusts, it pushes him into his own hand. It feels delicious, and the most delicious thing of all is the weight holding him down. Ilya’s hips piston back and forth and he pants in Shane’s ear, then seals his mouth on Shane’s neck, sucking and licking in a way that sends shivers down Shane’s spine.

“Ilya,” he says, soft and low. “Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.” The echo of the word sounding again and again in his mind, like a mantra, like a poem, like a prayer. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya.

Other words bubble up beneath it, popping open, bright and dangerous, and he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip to keep them in.

“Oh, god,” says Ilya helplessly, and then a wet heat blooms against Shane’s balls and he comes, groaning, shivering, held and safe.

Ilya’s head falls heavy on his shoulder. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he sighs.

Sweetheart.

Baby.

Whatever the fuck malysh means.

Something’s changed between them, Shane can feel it. Something fundamental, the underlying mantle of their world shifting into some new geological formation. You’re more. You’re special.

It’s not obvious; not visible or audible as they drag themselves out of their wrecked and sticky bed. Sheets are stripped and put in the washing machine. Showers are taken, teeth are brushed. Bags are packed. They go for a last skate down on the lake, come back, make eggs (and bacon, for Ilya, even though Shane has told him how bad the sodium nitrate is) and coffee. The sheets are dry, and they remake the bed together. Thank you, bed, says Ilya, blowing it a flurry of kisses. You were very good to us.

So yeah, the change might not be super obvious on the outside. But it’s real, Shane’s sure of it. It’s there in the softness of the way Ilya looks at him, and the easy way he turns into it when Shane presses a kiss to his temple in passing. It’s there in the way he slings his arm around Shane’s hips as they stand in the kitchen, checking to make sure everything’s clean and ship-shape.

It’s there in the way Ilya’s hand rests on Shane’s thigh on the drive home. Connected. Vaguely possessive.

Shane made the rookie error of telling Ilya he could be in charge of the music on the way home, and it’s terrible, some loud metallic techno thing, but Ilya’s fingers tap happily against his knee in time to the deep bass riff; and that’s not terrible at all. That’s soothing and cheering and lovely.

It couldn’t have gone much better, really, this week. Shane had been so nervous before Ilya arrived; so worried that he’d pushed them into something that was too much for their situationship to survive. But at the same time, his desire for time with Ilya Rozanov was—is—so overwhelming that he couldn’t bring himself to pass up on such a massive opportunity, and now he’s got no fucking regrets about it at all. This week has been so perfect.

Maybe next time he has a gap in his schedule, he can go to Boston. It’s not that far, and it’s not like he can’t afford it. And their next game is only a week and a half away, too, so it won’t be that bad. They’ll find time to see each other. And in between there’s always the phone, there’s always FaceTime. 

It won’t be that bad.

At dinner that night, it’s great to see how much Ilya’s loosened up around Shane’s parents, compared to that first night when he went so quiet and polite. Now he’s chattering happily about the cottage and how great it is, how much fun they had. He tells them that Shane made him sit outside in the freezing night by the brazier. “Because he says it is tradition, but I cannot believe you do this in January, Yuna?”

“Oh my god, Shane, you did not,” says his mother, giving him a disbelieving look.

“It wasn’t that bad! You’re such a baby, Rozanov.”

“When man from Moscow tells you it’s cold, it’s fucking cold,” says Ilya, and then, “Oh, sorry, bad word. Sorry.”

Dad laughs. “Don’t worry about that, you should hear Yuna when she’s mad about something. Mouth like a sailor.”

“A sailor? Do sailors say bad words in Canada?”

“Can’t say I know any sailors personally. Just an expression, I guess.”

“Ah.” Ilya looks longingly at the lasagna, and Mom notices, hands him the spatula, and he helps himself to seconds. “English has some very strange ways to say things,” he says.

“Like what?” asks Shane.

“Like… ugh, like party pooper. Who would poop at a party?”

“Ew! Oh my god, Ilya, no, I don’t think that’s what that means,” says Shane, revolted, as his mother dissolves into laughter.

“What?” Ilya looks around the table, indignant. “Is same word!”

“No, honey,” says Mom. “If you’re pooped, it means you’re tired.”

“Is that where it comes from?” Dad asks, tearing off another piece of garlic bread.

“God, I hope so. I mean, okay, technically Ilya could be right, but I’d rather he wasn’t.”

“Anyway, I bet you’ve got some pretty crazy Russian sayings too,” says Dad. “Come on, give us an example.”

“Hmmmm,” says Ilya, waving his fork in the air as he thinks. “Hmm, how about this: zub dayu, I give you a tooth. Means, I promise. Or, if something is very easy, very obvious, then a… um… Shane, what is that thing… like, small, sharp, round animal in garden?”

“A hedgehog?”

“Okay, yes, a hedgehog can understand it.”

“Oh, that’s cute,” says Mom. “I love that. Good guess there, Shane.”

“Yeah, well, I’m used to figuring out what he means,” says Shane, rolling his eyes mockingly at Ilya.

“Shane! That’s not very nice, Ilya’s English is excellent.”

“Thank you, Yuna,” says Ilya, glaring at Shane in a way that makes Shane want to kiss away the frown line between his eyebrows.

“It’s definitely better than your Russian, anyway, Shane,” says Dad.

“Oh, talking of Russia, if you’re finished with that lasagna… I bought you something!” says Mom. She goes over to the sideboard and gets a brown paper bag, which she gives to Ilya. “There’s a deli in Woodpark, they have all sorts of Eastern European food, so I popped over there this morning.”

Ilya peers inside, smiling hugely. “Syrok!” he cries.

“Shane told us you like it, and honestly we’re dying to try some.”

Ilya tips the contents of the bag out onto the table. There are half a dozen packets, different colours, all labelled in Cyrillic. “Ohh, this is good brand. This one is best,” he says, handing it to Yuna. “Is like… like milky, like caramel.”

“Well you have that one then, if it’s your favourite! Give me a different one.”

“No, you must try this.”

She gives in and peels it open, takes a bite of the chocolate coated bar. Shane still can’t get over the idea that it’s cheese, and shakes it head when Ilya offers him one, but Mom nods happily and says, “Try this, David, it’s like dulce de leche, it’s delicious.”

“Good, yes?” says Ilya through a mouthful of some other flavour. “Thank you, Yuna, is very kind of you.”

“Have you found any shops in Boston that have Russian foods?”

“No, I have not looked.”

“You should. I’m sure there are some, and it’s always nice to have things from home.”

“Mm.”

“You don’t miss it too much?”

“Ah, no. Not really. Too busy here.”

“Not even family? Your dad?”

Shane can almost sense the way Ilya’s body stills and stiffens beside him. He doesn’t like talking about his family, Shane knows. So he says, “Ilya’s got his best friend here, though. Svetlana. She visits you a lot, right, Ilya?”

“Yes. Yes, is good.”

“Oh, I remember,” says Dad. “You met her in Moscow, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. She’s really nice.”

“So is she… your girlfriend?” says Mom, with unnatural lightness, not looking at Ilya while she asks it.

Ilya does a small, one-shouldered shrug that could mean anything. “She travels a lot, with her work,” he says. “So. But yes, she comes often to Boston.”

That’s not a yes, but it’s not a no, either.

“What sort of work?” Mom asks.

“Cars. She sells cars, to collectors. High end.”

“Oh, gosh. That sounds exciting.”

Small talk swirls on. Shane loses the thread of it; the mention of Svetlana, and the careful way that Ilya had answered that question, have pierced him somehow.

He knows this pretence is what they’ve agreed to, and he understands why they have to do it—out in the outside world, at least. He’s resigned himself to the weird futility of their situation, or at least he thought he had.

But that was before.

It was before Ilya called him sweetheart. Before Ilya told him he was more, and special. Before Shane gave in and acknowledged, deep in his heart of hearts, that he’s gay as fuck and is never going to be anything else.

It was before they sat around his family dinner table, eating and talking and laughing, and it felt like a dream of something that might, perhaps, become a reality; even if it was only within these safe walls, with these safe people.

It was before this urge grew in his chest; the need to tell the ones he loves the most in the world, the ones who love him the most in return, about what’s happened to him. About Ilya.

ILYA

After dinner Ilya starts gathering up plates and empty syrok wrappers, ready to head into the kitchen with Shane and do the dishes (and maybe steal kisses); but David reaches out and takes the plates from him.

“Shane and I’ll sort that out, Ilya. Why don’t you head through to the living room?”

“No, is okay, I will help.”

“No need.” David leans in conspiratorially. “I think Yuna wants a word.”

Shane’s already disappeared into the kitchen. A slow, creeping sense of dread slithers down Ilya’s throat. “Okay,” he says.

Yuna is already on the couch, a big velvety thing that envelops you like a hug. She smiles when Ilya appears, and pats the cushion next to her.

All Ilya can think about is Shane’s shaky voice after talking to her on the phone last night. I think she knows.

Parents cannot know. Even before all the current issues started up in Russia, that had been a very clear boundary. There is no world in which Ilya’s father knows that Ilya and Shane Hollander can’t keep their hands and mouths off each other, and the situation with professional hockey is pretty fucking similar. So it doesn’t really matter that these parents are obviously not quite like Ilya’s; complete containment is critical. Ilya prepares for a dramatic bout of scoffing, denial, and potentially taking offence at the mere suggestion.

“Thank you for dinner,” he says. “And for finding syrok. Was very kind.”

“Oh, no problem.” She twists towards him, tucking a foot under her body, curled and flexible. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind this, but I wanted to talk to you about something a little personal.”

Oh fuck, here it comes. Ilya adopts a cordial, interested expression, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Maybe I should start by telling you that Shane and I had quite the argument over the CCM contract. I am sorry about the thirty percent by the way, but you know how these things go, it was a starting point for negotiation more than anything else.”

This is an unexpected topic. And confusing. And a little irrelevant, surely? “Is okay,” says Ilya cautiously.

“So anyway, while we were arguing, Shane let something slip about the financial situation with your family. And I want you to know that he only told me because we were, you know, having a bit of an intense discussion, as it were.”

Ilya shrugs, even though he’s a bit annoyed about that. “Is not a situation. Is fine.”

“Well, that’s up to you of course, although it seems like a lot of pressure to carry on your shoulders. But where I’m going with this is… are you interested in more of that sort of endorsement work?”

“I mean, yes. Of course.”

“Because you were very good at it, the ad came out beautifully. The camera loves you.”

“Thank you. Was fun to do, ahh, to do that.” He nearly says that it was fun to do it with Shane, but stops himself in time. There’s no need to add fuel to any potential subterranean fires.

“In that case, how happy are you with your representation? Is Mr Demchenko bringing you opportunities?”

That scoffing expression that Ilya had lined up comes in handy at this point. “Hah, no,” he says. “Fyodor is more for… making sure visa is okay, making sure rules are followed. That sort of person.”

“Right, I thought that might be the case. He’s been around for a long time. Very well established.”

It’s impressive how Yuna manages to craft insults out of compliments. “Yes,” Ilya agrees, smiling. “Very long time.”

“And I’m certainly not suggesting he’s not doing his job for you. But, you know. I’m actively seeking out these sorts of opportunities for Shane, networking with a few of the larger international brands, and sometimes things come along where I can see that he’s not quite the right fit. But you might be. And if you were interested…”

“I could be,” says Ilya.

“Okay. Okay, great. I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thank you, Yuna,” says Ilya, incredibly grateful not only for this offer but also because this isn’t the conversation he’d feared having when he walked into this room. “Is very kind of you.”

 “It’s no problem, honey.” She gives him a solemn look. “But… If anything did come of this conversation, I want you to know it would be a purely professional transaction, between you and me. It wouldn’t have anything to do with your relationship—I mean, your friendship with Shane.”

Ilya nods, even though that word, relationship, had sent a jolt of fear through him. Fuck. Maybe he shouldn’t relax yet. Maybe Shane was right, last night.

“Because I wouldn’t want to jeopardise that in any way,” she goes on. “You clearly mean an awful lot to him.” 

Yuna smiles at him, cordial and intent. There’s nothing accusatory in her expression, but she’s watching him closely. A small, guilty, Russian ant under the microscope. This is a critical juncture. If Ilya looks away from her searching eyes now—eyes so dark and familiar—it will be a disaster. He holds her gaze and smiles, a tight, surface level smile. A smile that is happy to be her son’s friend, and nothing more. It is definitely not the smile of a man who regularly jerks off to memories of the way her son whimpers and moans while he’s impaled on said smiler’s dick. 

“He is very good friend,” he agrees. “Very kind. Worries too much about money though. I am fine.”

Yuna pats him on the knee. “Oh, I’m sure you are. You seem extremely capable. I mean, look at what you’ve achieved, and you’re not even twenty yet! Playing at the very top level, in another country, in another language! But, still. You’re young, Ilya, and a long way from home. It’s important to have support. People you can trust. People who’ve got your best interests at heart.”

Ilya could count those people on one hand. He nods again.

“Okay. Well, then, if I hear about any good leads for endorsements, I’ll sing out. And you can go through Mr Demchenko if you want, or I can negotiate for you. Depends on your agreement with him, I guess? Is it exclusive?”

Ilya has no idea. He simply turned up at the office his father told him to turn up to, and signed the paper where Fyodor poked at it with his fat sausage of a finger. He shrugs. “I do not know. I have copy of paper somewhere, I think.”

“Oh. Oh, well, I could have a look at that, too, if you wanted. I can’t imagine trying to deal with legal agreements in another language. But! All totally up to you. It’s all about contacts, right? Who you know.”

“Yes.”

“And now you know me. So.” Another knee pat, a wide smile.

“Thank you, Yuna. Really.”

“Oh, don’t thank me, I haven’t done anything yet.”

David’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “Who’s for tea?”

Igninla has just scored his nine hundredth NHL point in a game between the Flames and the Oilers and Shane and Yuna are doing calculations on a piece of paper about how long it will take Shane to achieve the same milestone (“No, we should block it out, like for the first two years say forty points a season, but then after that I’m gonna get more ice time, right, and I’m gonna get better.” “Hmmm, true. Do All Stars points count?”) when Ilya’s phone starts vibrating in his pocket. He pulls it out.

The Colonel, it says.

Shane looks down at it. “Who’s the Colonel? Is that your dad?”

“Mmm,” says Ilya, looking at it with distaste. Grigori is not a Colonel any more, of course. But he was once, and he might as well still be Ilya’s commanding officer in some weird subconscious way that Ilya can’t seem to grow out of.

“Better get that, then,” says Yuna, and Ilya calculates that it would be a very bad idea to do what he wants to do, which is DECLINE RIGHT THIS SECOND. Fuck. Okay. He accepts the call.

“Hello, papa,” he says carefully. He gets up and makes his way out of the living room, girding his loins for whatever’s coming next. “How are you?”

Behind him David says, “Wow, it’s pretty cool hearing him speak Russian, eh?”

“Yeah, it’s so fast,” says Shane.

“I am calling about Alexei’s wedding,” the Colonel says.

“Yes?” Ilya perches on the stairs.

“He showed me the guest list yesterday. I need to add another thirty people, which will obviously cost more. But Alexei explained that you are paying as part of your wedding gift to him.”

“I already paid. I sent him two hundred thousand rubles.”

His father snorts. “Well, that explains why he needs more.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Why can’t he pay? Or the woman’s family?” Or you.

There’s a small, ominous silence. His father is very lucid today, which is turning out to be a mixed blessing. Eventually he says, in a voice like frozen iron, “How many fucking times did you tell me that if I let you do this ridiculous hockey thing, you would have so much money we would all be rich? Was that a lie? Has my son abandoned his family and thrown away his life on a fabrication?”

“No. No, I will be, papa, but it’s my first season. I’m not getting the really big money yet, and things have been… expensive. Setting myself up in America, and sending Alexei money, and paying for your assistant.”

This time the pause is longer and Ilya knows he should not have mentioned the assistant. Bad call, Ilya. Very bad call.

“I fired that useless imbecile. She was an insult. I don’t need help, and I don’t need my wife and son conspiring behind my back.”

“Not conspiring. Worrying about you. Trying to help you.”

“When I need assistance I will tell you so. Send your brother more money and stop being so lazy and miserly. You said you would be rich. So be rich.”

He hangs up.

Ilya closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He presses his mother’s necklace against his skin. In the living room, there’s an eruption of yelling; someone’s done something remarkable, but Ilya’s lost his appetite for a cosy family evening in front of the television. He wants a cigarette.

He puts on his parka and the blue beanie Shane gave him and heads out to the back steps, sparking up immediately and sucking the hot, bitter smoke down like medicine. The sky is clear and cold, a half-moon gleaming through tree branches and gently illuminating the charming, rickety backyard rink. He feels like he’s waking up from a week-long dream.

Fairytales are just that. Tales. They aren’t real life. Real life is a fucking struggle and you have to be armoured to survive it. You have to be strong to be the child your father demands. You have to be unbreakable, unstoppable, to be the hockey player the league demands. And Ilya is all those things. He’s tough, damn it. And he will be rich. He will fight and he will win and he will show that miserable old man that Ilya is his mother’s son in all the best ways, not only the weak ones.

The cigarette disappears far too fast and he lights a second off the end of it, grinding the stub of the first into the ground and then putting it in his pocket because the Hollanders’ porch is not a place for cigarette butts. He’s going to get enough shit from Shane about sneaking out for a smoke as it is.

Behind him, the door squeaks open. “Hey,” says Shane.

“Hey.”

Also rugged up against the cold, Shane comes and sits beside him on the step. To Ilya’s surprise, the first thing out of his mouth isn’t a complaint about tobacco or a baleful warning about lung cancer.

“Um. Is everything okay with your dad?”

“Yes,” says Ilya, who really doesn’t want to get sucked down into that particular conversational quicksand.

“And everyone else? Your brother?”

“Yes, Hollander, fuck.”

Shane Hollander is nothing if not tenacious. “Because if it’s not, if there’s anything you want to, you know, talk about, I’m here and I… you know. I care.” He bumps his shoulder against Ilya. “Even if you smell like cigarettes.”

Ah, there it is. Predictability is restored. “Ugh, I have been so good! First one for days!”

“Yeah. Which makes me think you didn’t enjoy that phone call. So are you sure there’s nothing you—”

“Shane! Enough. Please.”

Shane shrugs. “Okay. Sure.”

Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, Ilya tucks his other hand under Shane’s folded arms, shuffling closer until they’re pressed together, shoulder to thigh. The touch functions as a gentle apology.

“So, changing the subject,” says Shane.

“Good idea.”

“I’ve been… I’ve been thinking about something.”

“Oh really, how unlike you,” says Ilya with fond sarcasm. Here it comes, another mad idea from the kaleidoscopic depths of Shane Hollander’s neurotically over-analytical brain.

“Shut up.” Shane looks over his shoulder, as if to check that the door is still closed. In a low voice he says, “I’ve been thinking about… I mean, I think it’s pretty definite that I’m gay.”

Ilya desperately wants to roll his eyes and say Oh, you think? but manfully restrains himself. He should be a better ally, considering he’s the primary cause of this conclusion. “Yes, I think so,” he says. “Is not very straight to enjoy being fucked in the ass quite as much as you do.”

“It’s not very straight to enjoy doing the ass fucking either, asshole. Or the dick sucking.”

“Probably not. But you might not be totally gay. You might meet a girl you like. You might be, like, ninety percent gay.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s a hundred.”

“Really?” Bizarre. Women are so pretty. So cool. Plus they get all the best clothes and jewellery.

“Yeah. Why, what’s your percentage split?”

“Seventy thirty,” says Ilya, with a sly wink, and Shane barks out a laugh.

“Funny guy. But, like, seventy women?”

“Maybe. Don’t know. Have not done statistics.”

“Huh.”

“So… was there more thinking? Or only that you think you are gay?”

“No, I’ve also been thinking that…” He sighs heavily. “That maybe I should tell Mom and Dad. Honestly, I’m pretty sure they’ve got their suspicions anyway. Obviously it wouldn’t be good if everybody knew, but… but it feels horrible to not be honest with them. And I know they’d never tell anyone if I asked them not to, so—”

Ilya’s shaking his head, sucking on that fucking cigarette like it’s salvation as slimy fear slithers through him. Now? Now? That is the worst idea ever. “No. No, Hollander, you can’t do that.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because they will know is because of me!” hisses Ilya.

“No, no, I’m not saying I’d tell them about you. Just me.”

A sudden inrush of terror has ambushed Ilya out of nowhere. It's hypocritical, he knows, because he told Svetlana, didn't he? And he didn't even check with Hollander beforehand. Didn't even tell him about it after.

But Sveta would keep his secrets even with a knife to her throat. And Sveta is not parents. The mere thought of that has sent him spiralling.

Still: for a brief, shiny moment he lets himself imagine a future in which he’s part of this warm and perfect world. A world where this nice, loving, close family knows that Ilya Rozanov adores their son and they don’t mind. They invite him into their little circle. They let him hold their son’s hand as they all watch tv. They smile indulgently when Ilya kisses him. They invite Ilya to stay, and they don’t make up the guest bedroom, because they know he’ll be curled up with their boy, who only wants to sleep in Ilya’s arms.

But that’s a fucking pipe dream. That’s not the cold world they live in, and Shane’s being a naive idiot if he thinks his parents wouldn't know who he's being gay with.

“'Just you'? Fuck, Hollander!" he snaps, scowling. "You think you can say this and they won’t think, hmmm yes that explains why he ran off to our dacha in the middle of winter with that Russian guy? Yesterday, you say your mother think something is, is, is happen, no?” He’s so freaked out his grammar is going to shit. He sucks in more nicotine.

“But even if they did think that, so what? It’s true,” says the naive idiot, brows furrowed.

It is. It’s so desperately fucking true, the truest thing in Ilya’s life. That’s the horror of it.

“So what? So hockey, Hollander!” Ilya has grabbed his hand back and somehow now there is an inch of frigid air between their bodies. “And Russia is getting worse every year, you know this. I tell you this. And my family, my father? Fuck, no! Is maybe fine for you with your Canadian family and your Canadian passport and your fairy tale prince life but is not fine for me, okay? I cannot be this and then go home.”

“I know!” says Shane, louder now, scowling. “God, I don’t know why you’re acting like I suggested some big fucking announcement, it’s only about me, and it’s my parents, and you’ve met them, you can see they’d be chill about it.”

Yes, thinks Ilya, bitterly. Yes, they are your parents. That is your fierce and capable mother. Yours. So if anything went wrong, if we fought or something came out in public or the NHL found out, they would do everything in their power to protect you.

And I would be the scapegoat, and I would have nobody and nothing in my corner. A father and a brother and a country that would spit on me.

“No, Hollander. Is fucking terrible idea,” he says through gritted teeth, and he lurches up and stamps back into the house before Shane can reply.

Chapter 12: In Which Things Are Scary, But Shane Hollander And Ilya Rozanov Are Brave

Chapter Notes

ILYA

Rivers has had a haircut. It’s shocking how sophisticated he suddenly looks without that platinum straw hanging around his face. Back to his natural brunette, now in a sleek fade, his bone structure is suddenly apparent. He looks five years older and five million richer. Also kind of hot, which is very irritating and must never, ever be acknowledged except in tones of deepest mockery.

“Wow wow wow!” shouts Ilya, fanning himself dramatically as he sashays across the gym towards the stationary bike, where Rivers is pedalling alongside Marleau (who has not had a haircut and is also very much overdue a shave, he is looking unpleasantly hirsute). “Ama-zon, what happen to you? You have makeover?”

Rivers just grins and lets go of the handlebars to raise two middle fingers in Ilya’s direction.

Climbing on the bike beside Marly, Ilya says, “Is good that you take my advice. You look super hot.”

“Thanks, Roz, but you’re not my type.”

“You break my heart,” says Ilya, clutching at his chest in feigned agony.

“Good to see ya,” says Marly, ignoring all the theatrics. “When did you get back?”

“Sunday.”

“Good trip?”

“Trip?” says Rivers. “Where’d you go?”

“Canada. Was fucking cold.”

“So where the fuck were you yesterday?”

“Food poison,” says Ilya. “Fucking airport sushi.”

“Sushi? You had a whole airport full of fast food and you chose sushi?”

“Yes, yes, very stupid,” says Ilya. “I will not make that mistake again.”

“You’re sure you’re better?” says Marly suspiciously. “I don’t want to get some shitty stomach bug from you.”

“Of course. Iron Russian stomach. Trained on years of borscht. Totally better now,” says Ilya. 

Who is not, actually, better.

And who did not, actually, have either sushi or food poisoning.

Sometimes—not for a while now, but sometimes—the world closes in around him, goes dark and insurmountable. The familiar black fog coalesced around him on Saturday night, after he walked away from Shane and went to his room, barely managing a polite good night, thank you for dinner to Yuna and David; it thickened and compacted as the house went quiet. His phone shuddered, again and again, as Shane tried in vain to check in on him. He turned it off, not trusting himself to respond with any sort of civility. 

In the early hours of the morning there was a soft, uncertain knock on his door; he buried his head under the pillow and willed his visitor away. He was not fit company. He was not the Ilya Rozanov that Shane was looking for.

On Sunday he rose in the pre-dawn dark, crept out of the house, and walked through gentle snow-flurries until he reached some shops on the corner. He called a cab, and went to the airport alone. 

Back in Boston he shut his apartment door, took off his clothes, climbed into bed, and wallowed in the silent, vicious darkness of the fog. He stayed there, barely moving, all through Monday until a ravenous hunger drove him to order a disgusting amount of delivery pizza. He’s fucking lucky that didn’t make him sick.

He has still not acknowledged a single message from Shane. He has done a terrible thing, and he is still doing it. It’s entirely possible that he’s the worst person alive. Who else would do this to someone as good, as true and heartfelt and honest, as Shane Hollander? Only a monster.

Only someone who is entirely unworthy, in every way, of the connection and devotion that Shane has offered.

Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if the week before it hadn’t been so glowingly lovely. Gospodi, Ilya would give anything to be back there in that dacha, that cottage, in the middle of nowhere, with Shane in his arms and in his bed and not one other person to judge them. It was paradise, something heavenly. Why can’t they just try to have that, once or twice a year, and be grateful for it? Why did Shane have to suggest risking it all like that?

Ilya knows why. It’s because Shane wants, and deserves, so much more. But it’s more than Ilya can give him. Sweet Shane, with his gifts and his lust and his generosity, his fabulous body and impressive skills and his story-book family. His shy smile and his delectable hungers.

Not for you, whispers the black fog, spreading its tendrils and smelling of sulphur. Not for the likes of you.

“Are you sure you’re better?” says Rivers, standing in front of Ilya’s bike and wiping sweat off his frowning face with a towel. “You look like shit.”

“Fuck you,” says Ilya, pedalling harder.

“So were you visiting your BFF Hollander?”

“Some of the time.”

“Shit, you two are so cute. Don’t tell Connors, he’ll get jelly.”

Ilya turns away from Rivers and the ghost of Shane Hollander and punches Marly on the arm. “Want to go out tonight, after game?”

“Always, bro. If you’re sure you’re up for it.”

“I will probably sit on bench for whole game,” says Ilya, morose but probably accurate given that he missed practice yesterday. “So I will not be tired.”

“Alright!” says Rivers. “Where are we going, boys?”

The week drags on. On Tuesday, and Friday, and Saturday, Ilya picks up girls and takes them home and fucks them. It is all depressingly unsatisfying and only fills him with longing and regret. He drinks too much. He finally gets ice time on Saturday, but it’s mostly a shit show. He sends more money to Alexei, who sends him two emojis in return, a dollar sign and a tick—not even a motherfucking thank you.

Every day, another message arrives from Shane, but Ilya can’t bring himself to open the thread. Probably the best idea would be to block him, but Ilya’s too chicken to even do that. He’s so fucking ashamed of what he did, and what he’s still doing. He’s so fucking sad. He’s a piece of absolute shit.

The sooner Shane gives up, the better it’ll be for him. He’ll find some other guy who can be what he needs; some other guy that Yuna and David will love, and welcome into their home. Some other guy who’ll kiss Shane until he moans and fuck him until he can’t speak, until he only makes those devastated, blissful sounds that haunt Ilya’s dreams.

No, scratch that. The imaginary guy can’t do that. The imaginary guy might make Shane come, but that’s all. It won’t be… transcendent, the way it was with Ilya. Shane can have the new guy, but he’ll always remember Ilya and what they had together. 

Yeah. That’s bearable. Ilya can carry that weight.

On February fourteenth, the team flies to Montreal.

In the locker room before the game, Ilya feels sick. He’s going to have to see Shane and they might even end up in a face-off, because the league loves their story of inter-continental friendship. Such a great narrative. He’s surly and terse as they gear up, not engaging with all the usual banter and chest-beating.

Connors wanders over, friendly and innocent. “You catching up with your boy Hollander after?” he says, and Ilya turns, a snarl forming on his face until he gets it under control. No point in taking it out on poor ConCon.

“Maybe,” he lies, flatly.

“Well, cool. Maybe he’ll cheer you up? Because you’ve been kinda down this week. You all good?”

“Fucking great,” says Ilya.

Connors does not look convinced. He leans closer. In a low voice he says, “Seriously, man, if you’ve got shit you wanna talk about—”

“I do not.”

“I mean, not now, obviously. But some other time. I’m here for you, brother.”

This is so sweet Ilya has to look away and blink. He regrets every mocking joke he’s ever made at Connors’ expense. He’s a good dude. A good friend.

“I am okay,” says Ilya. “Really.”

“Okay, then. Good. Cool.”

Paulie lets out a piercing two-finger whistle to get their attention, and Connors straightens up, turns away. “Hey!" Paulie yells. "Listen up, boys! We all remember the pain of our last encounter with these poutine-gobbling fuckers, right? It was fucking horrible, yeah?”

There’s a chorus of agreement.

“Never again. Never again. No mistakes tonight, team. Rozanov, no stupid fucking penalties. Saintly, head in the fucking game, you hear?”

“Yeah, Cap. Got it. Locked the fuck in.”

“Good. They think they can take us. They’re gonna be cocky. And they’re not gonna know what the fuck hit them. You with me?”

Ilya joins in with the yelled affirmatives. Fuck, yes. He needs, he really fucking needs, to be a winner tonight.

The first sight of Hollander is like a bayonet to the chest. Ilya looks away before that beautiful dark gaze can skewer him.

No. Compartmentalise. Put him in the box with all the other things Ilya Rozanov fucked up and fucked over. 

There’s only one thing that’s never gone in that box, and that’s hockey. Out there on the cold hard ice, there’s no room for anything in his mind or body but the fight and the chase and the victory. That’s what he’s got to do. Just that. Please god, just that.

The last game went entirely Montreal’s way, but tonight the Raiders have all the luck. Paulie gets a perfect goal in the first five minutes; Hollander has a chance to equalise right before the end of the first period but he fucks it, the puck sliding outside the goal by a good two inches. Back on the bench he buries his face in his hands. Ilya watches out of his peripheral vision, not daring to look directly at him. 

Second period, LeClaire puts Ilya in. He wins the face-off against Cammalleri and flies down the ice, all adrenaline and need, passing back and forth with Marly, smashing past Pike and slicing in a beautiful goal, high and sharp and perfect. 

Yes, yes, fucking yes! His boys surround him, whooping and yelling. 

And so it goes. He’s on fire tonight, and Coach can see it as clearly as Ilya can feel it, everything in alignment. He’s got so much shit that he wants to avoid thinking about that his brain is using this game as a perfect, impenetrable shield. He is here, right here, right now in this speeding second and absolutely nowhere fucking else. He’s in his zone, and he’s unstoppable.

Third period, he does it again. Another goal, fast and clean and immaculate.

The Raiders win, three to nothing.

Redemption. Thank fuck, redemption, and Ilya the Great Redeemer. For once, he’s done something right.

As expected, the mood in the locker room is wildly celebratory, and Ilya’s the hero of the hour. LeClaire and Paulie drag him out to the media scrum, still sweaty-headed and half-undressed. Questions come so fast, guys talking over the top of one another, and it’s all Ilya can do to untangle the welter of English and try to answer properly. When he doesn’t quite catch something he takes refuge in a laugh, a wink, a click of his tongue.

“Okay, let’s let the kid get out of here and let him celebrate,” says LeClaire, seeing that he needs an escape hatch, and Ilya duly escapes, heading back along the echoing subterranean corridors that lead to the visitors’ locker room. 

He should feel joyous, victorious. He’s disappointed to find he doesn’t. Only relieved; in this one aspect, at least. But somehow now all that hyper-focus is over, he’s back in the black fog.

As he emerges from the stairwell, a voice says, “Ilya?”

He stops in his tracks. Turns.

Hollander’s standing there, showered and changed, sweet and clean, pale-faced.  His eyes are huge and his freckles are standing out, but his mouth is set in a determined line. He’s holding out a big yellow envelope. 

Ilya’s brain stutters. The fog swirls and shivers. What—what the fuck is he doing here?

“I’m, uh. Sorry to bother you, or whatever. But Mom asked me to give you this.”

Sorry to bother you. Christ. They’ve plummeted from you’re more, you’re special to sorry to bother you. A fucking long way to fall, but somehow that’s what they’ve done in the last couple of weeks.

And that’s all Ilya’s fault, he knows. He wants to sink into the floor and disappear. He nods, unsmiling, and takes the envelope.

“Um. Really good game,” says Shane. “You were so great. Congrats.”

He’s impossible. 

Ilya has treated him like absolute shit, fucked him and then run away from him, ignored him, ghosted him, and yet here he is. Standing there blinking, owlish and beautiful and agonisingly polite. He should be spitting on Ilya, cursing him, loathing him. Not fucking congratulating him, cool and civil.

Ilya swallows. He looks at the envelope. “What is this?” he says.

A shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” says Ilya, which is stupid, but he can’t think of anything else. He’s churning with self-disgust, and regret, and the hopeless undercurrent of adoring lust that Shane Hollander always brings out in him. He should be pulling Shane into the stairwell, enfolding him, peppering his face with kisses. 

But he can’t. He lost the right to do that, back in that cosy guest room in Ottawa, when the fog took him.

“I should…” He gestures down the hallway, towards where the muffled sounds of obnoxious revelry are emanating from the locker room.

“Sure,” says Shane, barely audible; but then, when Ilya takes a step forward, his hand flies out and grabs Ilya’s forearm. They both freeze as if the touch is electrified. Ilya’s head whips around and he’s caught, captured, in the intensity of Shane’s gaze.

“I,” says Shane. He blinks and swallows, but he doesn’t let go. “Please, Ilya. I just—I wanted to say sorry.”

What? Ilya stares, bemused, frustrated. 

“For fucking things up,” Shane mutters.

Things have definitely been fucked up, though Shane is not the one who did it. But he’s not finished.

“I know I said a really dumb thing. I know you can’t let anyone know. And I was pushing everything and only thinking about what I wanted and it wasn’t okay. So I’m sorry. And I don’t know if there’s, like, any way back. I mean, you’ve made it pretty clear that there isn’t, I guess. But I’m really sorry. And I’d never… I’d never tell, you know that, right? You don’t have to worry about that. If you are. I mean.”

He’s sorry. He, Shane Hollander, is sorry? Ilya’s mouth opens, and closes again. There are no words. 

Around the corner, the locker room door is flung open, crashing back into the wall. Loud voices, laughter, triumphant shouts. Shane releases Ilya’s arm and steps back as the Raiders spill into the hallway, half a dozen of them, huge and boisterous and joyful. A minor pile-up occurs as they stop short in front of Ilya and Shane.

“Rozzy! My boy, our booooyyyyyy!” yells Butts. “Get your fuckin’ gear on, we’re gonna tie one on tonight!”

“Hey, Hollander,” says Rivers, lifting his chin in an attempt to look cool. “Jack Rivers. You know my cousin, right? Josh Rivers? From juniors?”

“Oh. Yeah. Hi,” says Shane, his mouth forming into a rictus grin as he performs Friendly Small Talk for this sudden and unwelcome crowd.

“You wanna come out with us, Hollander?” says Marly. He glances at Ilya, then back to Shane. He gets a confused, doglike look when he can’t quite read a situation. “You and Roz are tight, right?”

“Um. Thanks, but I’ll leave you to celebrate. My team’s got wounds to lick.” His eyes flick to Ilya, then away again, colour mounting prettily in his cheeks. “Good game, guys. Good game, Rozanov. See you next time, yeah?”

He escapes into the stairwell, his footfalls fast and loud on the stairs.

“You know what, he definitely might be ace,” says Rivers thoughtfully, staring after him.

Ilya gathers his scattered wits and tells them to go on without him, that he’ll take a cab and see them there.

“Fuckin’ better,” says Marly, grabbing Ilya by the back of the neck and pressing a noisy kiss to his forehead. “You’re the fuckin’ man tonight, Roz.”

Ilya’s the last one in the shower. The last one in the locker room, sitting in his towel, turning the envelope over in his hands.

“You all good, kid?” says Paulie, the second-to-last, pausing at the door. “What you got there?”

“Nothing. Is all good. I will see you there.”

“Okay. You sure? Cheer up. Smile! You did were a fucking legend tonight.”

“Yes. Yes, I am very happy,” lies Ilya, stretching his mouth into a smile that’s probably about as convincing as Hollander’s was.

“Okay. If you say so,” says Paulie, though he looks deeply suspicious.

The door clunks shut. Silence falls. Ilya closes his eyes and leans his head back against the locker. He heaves a sigh. Better see what’s in this fucking envelope.

Half a dozen leaves of paper, stapled, and a separate sheet paper-clipped to the front. Tidy, elegant writing.

Dear Ilya,

After our discussion on your last night in Ottawa I thought I should provide you with this documentation.

As I mentioned, I think it’s particularly important that you, as a young athlete in a foreign country, have people around you who you can trust completely. And I know that trust is usually earned over time; but I would like to begin looking for opportunities for you sooner rather than later.

So, in this early stage of our professional acquaintance, I would like to give you a legal assurance of my trustworthiness.

Attached is a signed non-disclosure agreement. It is exhaustive and not constrained only to any endorsement deals we might be involved in. To put that more simply, this agreement covers anything and everything you might tell me, or my husband. (I often discuss possible deals with him, so he is included in this document.) It means that we cannot talk about anything to do with you, with anybody at all, without your express clearance. Not just deals—anything. If either of us did, you would have the right to sue us for damages. But I promise we never would.

If you are happy with this, please sign where indicated by the yellow stickers and return one copy to me. Of course, feel free to ask a lawyer to look over this first. I assume your team retains legal advisors.

Yours,

Yuna Hollander.

SHANE

Shane has disappointed his parents tonight, he knows. They came all the way to Montreal for this game, and got a room in a nearby hotel. Shane’s apartment only has one bedroom, and he offered it to them, said he’d be happy on the couch, but they said no, because the hotel has a really good restaurant. Said they’d love to have dinner with him after the game, and he’d agreed at first.

But after seeing Ilya and delivering his mom’s mystery envelope—not to mention playing that fucking disaster of a game—he’s wiped out and wretched and he can’t face an evening of loving commiseration and breaking down what went wrong with play. Not to mention the questions about Ilya that are bound to arise. Again.

Ilya. Fuck, Ilya.

He sits in the shower, curled into a ball, letting scalding hot water flow over his skin as he pushes the heels of his hands against his aching eyes. He already showered at the complex, but he still feels wrong. So stupid it's somehow grubby.

He fucked it up so utterly, so completely. He’s such a goddamn idiot. It was a stupid idea to invite Ilya to Ottawa in the first place; they knew, both of them, that their—thing—was an impossibility. Just a weird, fun pastime here and there. Just something to be cool about, be chill.

But Shane knows he’s the complete fucking opposite of cool and chill. He’s a hopeless over-thinker, and once he’s decided something is for him, he’s all in. He doesn’t do halfway measures. The time he’s spent with Ilya, every sublime fucking minute of it, has shown him incontrovertibly that he’s gay. He’d be lying to himself if he pretended otherwise. And he hates lying—that’s another thing he’s shit at. It’s not him.

Maybe he has to learn to get better at it.

Maybe, if Ilya’s not interested in hanging out with him any more, he can tell his parents he’s gay at some point, and they won’t assume anything about Ilya.

Or, no, wait—maybe they’ll assume that Shane made a move on Ilya, and Ilya wasn’t interested, and that’s why he stopped speaking to Shane. Honestly, that wouldn’t be a million miles from the truth. When Shane thinks about what he’s done, really lists it all out and tabulates it, he wants to curl up and die.

All the way back in Russia, all those months ago, it was Shane who started this by drunkenly kissing Ilya in his bed. It was Shane who woke up the next morning and wanted to do more, Shane who shoved his hand into Ilya’s pants and got told no, not here. It was Shane who begged Ilya to fuck him and Shane who emailed first, after coming home. Shane who pleaded with Ilya to meet up when they could, Shane who organised the CCM shoot, Shane who invited Ilya to Ottawa, Shane who introduced Ilya to his parents, Shane who crept into his room and sucked him off, Shane who dragged him up to Lanaudière, Shane who gave him gifts, Shane who talked him into shoving a dildo up his ass for the first time, Shane who wanted to tell his parents, wanted to out a fucking Russian hockey player to his parents—what the everloving fuck is wrong with him? He’s a moron, he’s a social incompetent, he’s—

Softly, over the sound of the shower, his doorbell rings.

That’ll be Mom, wanting to confirm that he gave Ilya that envelope; wanting to check on him after that awful, shitty game, because she’s got to know he’s going to be beating himself up so hard for that missed goal. It was inexcusable. Well, there is an excuse, or a reason, at least, but he can hardly tell her I couldn’t concentrate because Ilya Rozanov was there and I love him so much it’s killing me but he’s never going to talk to me again.

He’s so fucked. Ilya’s always going to be there, inextricably linked with Shane’s life and career. They’ll never be able to be free of each other. He’s going to live with this pain forever; the knowledge of what he had and what he frightened off.

Okay. Enough. Compose yourself, Hollander, and just go talk to your mom.

He pads barefooted over to the door, tucking the towel’s corner in tight, and plasters on a careful smile before he opens it.

It’s not Mom.

All the blood drains from his face. His cheeks go numb and cold and his autonomic nervous system temporarily abandons all its responsibilities, stopping his lungs and quite possibly his heart.

“Hollander,” says Ilya. He looks nervous. He’s got the envelope with him. “I can come in?”

“Um. What—what for?” says Shane, and Ilya scowls.

“You want to discuss here? In hallway?”

Okay, no. Whatever. “Sure. Come in. I’m just gonna…” Shane gestures towards the bathroom, because there’s no fucking way he can do whatever this is in a goddamn towel, with Ilya looking at him like that, with that terrible mix of despair and attraction.

“Okay,” says Ilya, and he shuts the door.

In the bathroom, Shane throws on sweats and a hoodie and takes a brief second to stare at himself in the mirror. He looks nearly as hysterical as he feels.

It’s okay, he tells himself sternly. It’s okay and you will survive this. Act like a fucking adult for once. You’re not a child, and you don’t get everything you want, and that’s okay. That’s fucking life.

Ilya’s not on the couch. He’s taken off his coat and shoes and he’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the lights of Montreal. He didn’t get to see this view last time, because Shane closed all the curtains, terrified that someone might see the two of them together, back when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. 

Well, at least he doesn’t have to worry about that any more. He just has to worry about keeping his cool, with Ilya right here in his apartment, as solid and handsome and wildly magnetic as ever. Jesus. Shane can’t look at him, and he also can’t not look at him, and the result of these competing desires is that his eyes are darting all over the place like a fucking psycho.

“Shall we, like, sit?” he says, gesturing at the couch.

“Okay,” says Ilya again. 

They sit on the couch, a careful distance between them. Actually, the cushion between them is where Ilya sat last time he was here. When Shane stripped for him, and then bent over and moaned like a whore while Ilya licked at his hole. And then took out his gorgeous dick and let Shane ride it until his thighs gave out.

When Shane looks up, Ilya is also staring at that spot on the couch and doubtless remembering the same things, which only doubles the humiliation of it.

“Why are you here?” Shane manages.

Ilya waves the envelope. “Because of this. Is obvious, Shane. You told them,” he says, and he says it fiercely, but there’s a watery undercurrent in his voice.

Frowning, confused, Shane says, “Told them what?”

“About you. About me.”

The fuck? Shane shakes his head, adamant. “No. No, I—no, of course I didn’t. Why do you think that?”

The envelope is tossed down on the sex cushion.

“What the fuck is it?” says Shane, opening it and drawing out a sheaf of papers.

“You bring this to me and you don’t know what it is? Really?” says Ilya, eyebrows high and skeptical.

And okay, that might sound a little crazy, but it’s true. “Yeah, really. Fuck, Rozanov, it—Mom just asked me to give it to you and what was I supposed to say? ‘No, I’m too embarrassed ‘cos he’s ghosted me since he snuck out of our house without saying goodbye’? And anyway, I know she talked to you about endorsements or whatever, so I assumed this was about that, and none of my… none of my… not my… business,” he says, the words getting slower as he reads the cover letter in his mother’s fine, familiar script.

It means that we cannot talk about anything to do with you, with anybody at all, without your express clearance. Not just deals—anything. If either of us did, you would have the right to sue us for damages. But I promise we never would.

“Oh,” he says softly. He blinks, and all of a sudden his eyes feel wet, as horrid clarity sweeps over him.

She knew, didn’t she. She did this for Ilya, to make him feel safe, because she knew, all along. They knew. Of course they fucking knew.

Which means that Shane blew up everything, fucked it all so completely, for no reason at all. Because they already knew. They’ve just been waiting for him to have the honesty and the guts to trust them.

Hideously, shamefully, a hot tear escapes and slithers down his cheek. He wipes at it angrily.

“Hollander,” says Ilya, a terrible agony in his voice.

Shane shakes his head again, staring at the NDA. “I didn’t tell them,” he says. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Because you said. And I get it. I understand why you’re so pissed off with me, I do, I—I—”

His mouth twists around the words, his throat locking tight. He turns away as another fucking tear escapes. Jesus.

“Hollander,” says Ilya again, and then he’s beside Shane on the couch and he enfolds him, pulling him close. One big hand is behind Shane’s head, holding it against Ilya’s shoulder; tugging him into the warmth and strength, the familiar woody smell, the safety, of Ilya’s embrace. Instinctively, Shane twists towards him, drawing a leg up underneath himself and leaning into it.

Oh, god, it’s so good. Losing this, losing him, is the worst thing that has ever happened to Shane. He’s sick with want, awash with it. This, right here, is the best place in the whole world to be. He wants it more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks again into Ilya’s shoulder, and his arms wind around Ilya’s waist and he’s clinging, holding on for dear life.

“No,” says Ilya, and then his chest shudders, a gasping breath and then another. “Is me, Shane. Is me that is sorry. So fucking sorry.”

He clutches Shane even tighter, and Shane realises, with shocked bemusement, that Ilya is crying. Fucking sobbing. He pulls back, shakes his head, puts a hand on Ilya’s cheek, wiping a tear with his thumb.

“No. No, Ilya, don’t, please.”

“I did such a bad thing, Shane. I was fucking monster. You are so bright, so good, and I am so bad and broken and I am s-s-so s-sorry.” He wipes his nose on the back of his hand, rolls his tear-shiny eyes at the ceiling. His mouth is twisted, his expressive face a picture of misery that stabs Shane viciously.

“No,” Shane says again, horrified. “No, you’re not broken, you’re not—there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re so amazing, don’t ever think that.”

“You don’t know,” Ilya mumbles to the floor.

“Then tell me. Tell me, talk to me. Please, Ilya. Even if you don’t want to do, like, the sex thing with me any more, I still want to be your friend.”

A wild laugh breaks from Ilya, a gasp of something hysterical. “You think I don’t want to fuck you?”

“I mean, yeah? What else am I supposed to think? You ran away, and I don’t even know how many times I texted and called, but—”

“Was not because I do not want to be with you.” His arm around Shane’s waist flexes, pulling him even closer. He blinks, sniffs, getting himself back under control, as beautiful chemicals flood through Shane’s body. Was not because I do not want to be with you. The words echo and swirl, trembling as they hold out a beautiful possibility.

“Then why?” Shane presses. “I know it was stupid of me to suggest telling them, but I wouldn’t have, not when you didn’t want it.”

“I did want it. I do want it. But hockey, and Russia, and… I can’t have it.”

“Not all of it, maybe. But even if we can’t have everything, I don’t think that means we should settle for nothing.”

Ilya swallows and sniffs. He heaves a deep breath, his chest swelling against Shane’s. His lips are parted, red and swollen from the crying. “You think we can still have something? After what I did?”

Anything, thinks Shane. I would take anything you are willing to give me. I would live on the hidden scraps and stolen moments, because I will starve without them. “Yeah,” he says. “If you want.”

Ilya nods. His eyes are glazed and gleaming still. “I want,” he whispers.

And just like that, Shane’s whole again. His heart beats for a reason, and the reason is Ilya.

He climbs onto Ilya’s lap, straddling his thighs, and gently takes Ilya’s face in his hands. That beautiful, beloved face. He runs his thumbs across Ilya’s cheekbones, smearing the last of the salty tears away, and bends, and presses his mouth to Ilya’s mouth.

Soft, hot, perfect. The other half of him.

One gentle kiss. Another. Another, and this time Ilya’s mouth opens just a little, sucking at Shane’s bottom lip, and it sends delicious shivers down Shane’s spine.

“You forgive me?” Ilya mutters.

“I forgive you. You forgive me?”

“No. Because you did not do anything wrong.”

Shane’s not sure he believes that, but he’s not going to argue it now. “Please don’t do that again,” he begs. “Don’t stop talking to me. If you’re mad with me, that’s okay. We can talk, we can argue if we need to.”

Ilya fishes out the cross that hangs around his neck, and he kisses it, staring at Shane as he does. “I promise,” he says.

It’s special, that cross. Shane knows that much. Maybe one day Ilya will trust him enough to tell him the story.

“Okay. Good,” he says.

“Good? We are… good?”

“Yeah. We’re good.”

Gently, overcome by relief and now the familiar, needy desire, he tugs Ilya’s t-shirt free, slipping a hand inside, stroking over Ilya’s gorgeous body and going back to kissing him. This, he’s sure, is the best way to apologise; the best way to restore their abnormal normality. Ilya’s hands do the same, and then he slides his hand down into Shane’s track pants. “Yes. Good. Off,” he murmurs into Shane’s mouth.

Shane gets up, about to obey—and then he shakes his head. “No, hang on. You owe me, Rozanov. At least twice you’ve made me strip for you. My turn. And not here, either.”

Two minutes later they’re in the bedroom. The curtains are definitely closed. The lights are low, but not so low that Shane, reclining on the bed, can’t see exactly what Ilya’s doing.

Which is standing at the foot of the bed, but otherwise mostly pouting at this point.

“Not fair. I want to see you.”

“You will.” Over the outside of his pants, Shane palms at his cock. He’s giddy with joy and lust, with the thrill of having Ilya back and the rollercoaster of emotions he’s been riding, and his cock’s stiff as anything.

Ilya slowly pulls the hem of his t-shirt up, exposing sculptural abs, scattered with moles. Up it goes, up, and then he takes it between his teeth and lounges back against the wall, just like he did at that boathouse in Voskresensk. Shane laughs.

“Nice throwback. Wish I’d known then that I’d get to see you do this in my bedroom, right before you fuck me,” he says.

“Was good photo, yes?” says Ilya between his teeth.

“Very good. I jerked off looking at it a couple of times,” Shane admits. He might be a little lightheaded. He’s just so fucking happy. Ilya’s back. They’re back.

“Oh my god, Hollander, you are pervert,” says Ilya, all shock and mock indignation.

“Yeah, apparently,” says Shane. 

Ilya releases the shirt. “If I am going to fuck you, you better get ready,” he says. 

Rolling over to get the lube from the nightstand, Shane says, “Leave that with me. Get on with it.”

The grin on Ilya’s face is massive. Shane bends his knees and shoves both hands into his pants, taking the lube with him.

“I can’t seeeee,” Ilya whines.

“No. My turn for looking. Fucking show me something.”

“Oh, this is punishment?”

“Absolutely.”

“You are very mean. Very strict.”

“I want to see your nipples,” says Shane, because he is a pervert, and he can say that to Ilya, and Ilya will—

Oh yeah. Ilya will hook his t-shirt up under his arm pits so his fantastic chest is exposed. Ilya will lick two fingers and rub them over his nipples and flare his nostrils when he does it. His cock is a gorgeous bulge in his jeans. Shane slicks up his fingers, lifts his hips, and slips a finger into his body, biting his lip and groaning a little to make sure Ilya knows what’s happening.

Ilya definitely knows. He whimpers a little. “Oh, god, Hollander,” he says, and then all of a sudden he rips his t-shirt off and starts unbuckling his belt, no teasing, no taunting, no nothing.

“Hey! What happened to—”

“I cannot,” gasps Ilya, hopping up and down as he yanks off his socks. “Next time. Next time, I promise. I do it with music. Fancy underwear. Anything. But now, I cannot. I need to touch you. Please. Please, Shane.” He shoves his jeans down, briefs and all. He grabs Shane’s sweats and pulls them down, exposing Shane who is knuckle-deep in his own hole.

This should maybe be embarrassing but is actually diabolically hot. Shane lifts his lip, staring at Ilya, and pumps his finger in and out.

“Fuck, yes, fuck,” Ilya gabbles, eyes huge, and then he’s on the bed and folding Shane’s knees up high and wide, grabbing for the lube bottle. He puts a hand over Shane’s, lining up their index fingers, and lets Shane guide them inside. Together. The stretch is harsh for a second, and then incredibly good, so good that Shane bares his teeth and hisses; inside, Ilya uses Shane’s own fingertip to stroke over his prostate, again and again, and it’s delicious; but—

“I want you in me,” Shane begs. “Please, that’s enough, that’s okay, please, now?”

“Da, yes, blyat,” says Ilya. “Condom?”

Shane lifts his chin at the nightstand, and Ilya extracts his hand, kisses Shane’s kneecap, and clambers off the bed. His hands are shaky with urgency as he rips the foil, and it’s crazy sexy. Shane pulls off his hoodie and then goes back to fingering himself, stretching, wanting, needing.

Ilya climbs back between Shane’s thighs and watches for a minute or two, panting and lightly rolling a circled thumb and finger up and down his sheathed, lubed cock.

“Why’s it always me putting on a show?” says Shane petulantly, shoving in a third finger.

“Because you do it so good. Because it makes me crazy. Fuuuck,” Ilya says, drawing it out into a beautiful snarl. “So hungry for it, Hollander.”

“Yeah. So give it to me.”

Ilya leans, bracing on one elbow, and smashes his mouth against Shane’s, wet and hungry. He licks inside and makes a greedy humming sound. His other hand is down between them, guiding, and then—ah, god, yes, the push and give and fill and Shane throws his head back, open-mouthed. Heavy and solid and warm, Ilya lets his weight come down and Shane lifts his hips in offering, hooking his ankles together around Ilya’s waist as Ilya slides in, in, in.

The kisses slow, then still. Time thickens around them like molasses, holding and binding. A quicksand moment of beautiful connection, blue-green eyes boring into Shane’s. Seeing him. Wanting him.

“Is good,” says Ilya softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s good.”

Such a small word, and so simple. So true. Insufficient, but at the same time, absolute. It’s good, all of it. Ilya’s handsome face and his crown of curls, the incredible curve and strength of his shoulders, the weight of his muscled body and the solid flesh inside. The way he looks at Shane, as though he’s the point and purpose of Ilya’s beating heart.

It’s all good, and when Ilya starts to move, a long, slow, dedicated motion, it just gets better. Hits just right, so sweet and perfect, and it’s like they were made to do this thing together. To be this one joined creature, thrusting and taking and giving and wanting. The whole time, Ilya’s kissing him, his mobile mouth lavishing adoration on Shane’s throat, his jaw, his ear, his temple, the bone above his eye. His mouth, his panting greedy mouth. Shane’s hands roam avidly, and everything he touches is better than the thing before. Silken curls and the hard bone of shoulders. The motion of the astonishing muscles in his back, the perfect skin, the firm clenching handful of ass, all of it the only world that Shane wants to live in. Ilya. Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. 

The word escapes into reality, a new shape to his outgoing breath. Ilya. Ilya. My Ilya. Inside, and  between their bellies where his cock is stroked and leaking, pleasure builds, over and over, seeking its own crescendo and driven by the speeding cadence of Ilya’s hips.

“Oh, fuck,” groans Ilya, into Shane’s neck, and then he lifts his head, looks deep into Shane’s eyes with the most glorious, pleasure-drunk expression, and comes.

He’s so beautiful. That look, when it pours through him—the pure, clean, utter bliss. Shane arches up and lets himself fall into it the same. Together, pulsing and shaking and gasping. Gorgeousness. Wholeness. Truth.

ILYA

For several minutes Ilya is incapable of speech. Blissed out, wrung out, shaky with relief and the aftermath of fear and tears and fucking. All he wants, all he needs in the world, is this exact thing: Shane Hollander in his arms, pressing butterfly kisses to Ilya’s face.

Shane Hollander, however, is Shane Hollander, who does not like to be covered in drying semen, and Ilya knows this about him. So he mutters, I get rid of this and gently disengages. He takes the condom to the bathroom, flushing it and running the tap until the water is warm, then wetting a couple of washcloths and taking them, and a towel, back into the bedroom. He cleans the spend from Shane’s body, kissing his sweet softened cock and the lovely red-brown flesh of his nipples.

“Roll over,” he says gently, and Shane does; Ilya nudges his thighs apart and cleans away the lube.

“You don’t have to do that,” mumbles Shane.

“Shh. I know. I want.” Ilya plants kisses on those lovely buttocks, and then slowly all the way up Shane’s spine, and Shane heaves a happy sigh.

“C’mere,” he says. He pulls back the bedclothes and climbs in, inviting Ilya; he curls around Ilya, making him the little spoon, and rocks him, kissing the back of Ilya’s neck.

“What time’s your curfew?” he murmurs.

“Fuck curfew, I won tonight’s game. No curfew for me.”

Shane chuckles, his breath huffing warmly. “You did. You were insanely good. Fuck.”

Briefly, Ilya considers trying to explain that this was entirely because he was so desperately miserable that hyper-fixation became his combined coping mechanism and super-power, but he doesn’t, because the depths of that misery have already faded in his memory. 

The fog has lifted. The world is clear, and clearest of all is the knowledge that he wants Shane Hollander with everything he has. Body, mind, heart, soul. Fucking all of it. There’s no escaping it, and he no longer wants to try. 

Perhaps, thanks to that envelope, he no longer needs to.

He brings Shane’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them, one by one. He summons all his courage.

“Do you still want to tell them?” he asks.

Shane is silent for a moment. “Only if it’s what you want, too,” he says.

“What… what would you say?”

“Just that I’m gay. I wouldn’t say anything about you.”

Ilya kisses knuckles again. He hugs Shane’s arm against his chest. “Why not?” he says.

“What do you mean, why not? Because I promised.”

“Not because… you do not want them to know is me?”

“What? Fuck, no, Ilya, I—here, turn around, look at me. Look at me.”

Ilya does. Those eyes, that furrowed and serious forehead, are so beautiful it’s literally painful.

“I’m so fucking proud that you want me,” Shane whispers. “I can’t believe it sometimes. If I could tell them that we’re together, that would be… everything. But I truly do understand if that’s not okay for you. I promise I do.”

“Okay,” says Ilya, and then they lose several minutes to soft, slippery kisses, which is entirely the fault of Shane’s plump and irresistible bottom lip, but Ilya manfully wrests back control.

“So,” he says. “Here is what I think your parents should know.”

Shane blinks, and his fingers tighten on Ilya’s waist. “What?”

Reaching up, Ilya pushes a thick lock of hair back from Shane’s forehead. Strokes his shining head. “They should know that when you went to Russia, you met a very handsome, very talented hockey player. That you liked him, and he liked you, so much, from the first moment he saw you. That he wanted you. That you kissed him, and he was so happy. That he kissed you back.”

“Really?”

“Mmm, really. And then you should tell them he took you to his dacha and you begged him to fuck you, and he did, and—”

“I am definitely not telling them that.”

“No? Oh yes, they are nice and Canadian, I remember. So, maybe just tell them that this handsome hockey player is now in America and he is bisexual and you are gay and that you want, very much, to be together. But is secret. Secret boyfriend, yes?”

“Boyfriend?”

“You did not like lover. Or friend with benefits. So.” Ilya shrugs.

“Okay then. Boyfriend,” says Shane, smiling so wide it almost distorts the word. “Okay.”

“Secret boyfriend.”

“Because of hockey. And Russia. I know.”

“Yes. But you trust them. And I have…” Ilya shrugs. “I have legally binding document, so.”

Shane blinks again, and his eyes have done that thing where they each harbour one bright, unspilled diamond. It is so terribly beautiful that Ilya has to kiss him, right there on the bridge of his nose, between those perfect eyes.

“I can really tell them all that?”

“Yes. If you want.”

“I swear they’ll be good about it. You don’t have to worry.”

“I have no worry,” says Ilya; and if that’s not quite true, it doesn’t actually matter. The fact is that he wants this terrifying thing so much, he’d run any risk to get it. He turns his wrist, glances at his watch. “We should go see them now. Is getting late.”

Shane’s eyes widen. “You want to tell them now?”

“You want to wait until, what, end of season? Fucking summer?”

“No, I—yeah, no, okay, fuck, fuck it, let’s.” 

As if he needs to do it immediately, before he loses the courage, Shane lurches out of bed and fumbles in the pocket of his discarded sweatpants for his phone. “I’ll text.”

His fingers fly. Ilya watches him, soft with adoration. Big and sleek, handsome as dawn, smart and sweet and wanton. And he’s Ilya’s. How the fuck did Ilya get so lucky?

“I have quick shower,” says Ilya, because it occurs to him that he doesn’t want to present himself smelling of sweaty sex.

“Okay, yeah, you go first,” says Shane, distracted as his phone chimes. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re still up. We can go over.”

“Okay.”

Maybe Ilya has lost his mind. Or maybe this is the sanest thing he’s ever done. Either way, he’s doing it.

They walk the three blocks to the hotel. Ilya watches their reflections in the elevator’s mirrored doors, and they look scared. But they also look disgustingly happy. Especially when Ilya takes Shane’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and squeezes. 

The corridor is empty when the elevator doors open. Heart hammering, he keeps hold of Shane’s hand. He’s not letting go until he absolutely fucking has to.

They stand in front of his parents’ room, and look at each other.

“You’re sure?” says Shane.

“Yes,” says Ilya. He is sure. He’s dizzy with surety, certainty, need.

And one other thing.

Shane raises his free hand to knock, but Ilya says, “Wait.”

Huge eyes turn on him.

“There is one thing I am not ready for you to tell them yet, malysh.”

“What?”

Ilya leans close. He rubs his cheek against Shane’s, eyes closed, breathing him in. He whispers into Shane’s ear. “Do not tell them how much I love you. Is secret.”

There. He did it. He said it. He is so fucking brave tonight, it’s insane. He pulls back to see what Shane’s face has done.

It’s lit up, like the sun. Like the star that’s blooming, nova, in Ilya’s ribcage. 

“Okay,” says Shane. “But they might be able to tell how much I love you. They know me pretty well.”

Ilya shrugs. He can't even speak. Shane lifts their joined hands, and they knock on the door together.

Yuna opens it. She looks at the two of them standing there, hand in hand; she smiles, wide and joyful, and one bright, happy tear swiftly wells and spills.

“David,” she says. “Oh, David, they’re here.”

Chapter End Notes

So there you go friends. Gigantic amounts of appreciation and love for you darling readers, it's been a trip!

And eternal gratitude to my beloved Strangeredlantern. It's so good to have you at my side honey. xxx

Chapter 13: Book Cover and epub file

Chapter Summary

A book cover I made for this series, also a clean epub.

Chapter Notes

I always make these for myself but perhaps someone else would like to have it too. I know you can download the epub anyway but then it's full of author's notes and blah blah. The one below is clean. Includes both works in the series.

LINK TO FULL EPUB