Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types, Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Coach LeClaire (Game Changers), Connors (Heated Rivalry), Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Figure Skater Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Hockey Coach Shane Hollander, Supportive Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Strangers to Lovers

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-16 Updated: 2026-06-22 Words: 14,394 Chapters: 4/6

on the edge

Summary

In an effort to get back to the Stanley Cup finals, The Boston Bears adds a new skating coach to the permanent coaching team: Newly retired pair skater Shane Hollander, who's fresh of an Olympic gold medal, and possibly-

No, scratch that. He is definitely the prettiest man Ilya Rozanov has ever seen. Especially when he moves across their shared ice like he was born for it.

Chapter 1: cool

Chapter Notes

"I thought it was popular because it was okay-ish and had hot, naked men, but it's really just... great." - my husband, who finally watched HR with me over the weekend.

Once again, I am back. I've learnt very little about hockey and/or figure skating since last time, so don't expect much on that front.

There is an outline, but no posting schedule. I'm in my thirties with a stressful corporate job, don't @ me. This is all vibes, babes.

"Since we've clearly been missing an edge in the playoffs for the last couple of years, management has decided to bring in that edge as a new permanent part of the coaching team."

Coach Le Claire's voice rang clear over the ice, echoing slightly in the rafters. The ice was home to both a number of well-known players, as well as new faces and draftees trying to get a place on the roster. The new season wouldn't officially begin for another month, but the team was back on the ice after that just a bit too long summer off the ice.

They'd been eliminated during the second round of playoffs this time, just like last year. The year before that, they'd reached Conference finals, and the year before that, just the first round. They hadn't reached the finals since last time they'd won in 2014, the first year Ilya Rozanov carried the title as Captain. Even though they'd consistently been in the playoffs during his entire time as captain, they were hungry for another Cup title.

Ilya Rozanov, drafted first overall of his class, generational talent, surpassing even veterans in their prime in speed, accuracy and skill, especially wanted another cup. Only just turned 27 years old, he was barely starting his prime years, but some critical voices were already discussing if he was actually as great as predicted, or that he'd simply been lucky with the first cup win. Never mind that he consistently performed better in points and stats than just about everyone in the league.

He was, technically, in a league of his own. Unfortunately, it took a both incredibly resilient and sometimes lucky team to win the Cup.

"Instead of doing shorter runs with consulting coaches," LeClaire continued, "It's been decided that we're gonna add a skating coach to the team. This will ensure we're going to get a closer look and a better, more consistent plan for improvement for each and every single one of you — yes, even you, Rozanov," he added at Ilya's snort. He grinned widely and leaned against his stick as few members of the team chuckled.

"This is Shane Hollander," the assistant coach Marc said with a wave to a new figure that slid forward on the ice, "He's won more gold in pair skating that you'd be able to dream of, including at the Olympics this February before he chose to retire with his partner and we lucked out in getting him here."

The first thing Ilya noticed was that, unlike the other assisting coaches, he was wearing skates — hockey skates, even though he was supposedly a figure skater. He was dressed in a pair of thick, loose grey sweats, a smooth black fleece branded with the Bears' logo over a charcoal turtleneck just visible where the jacket was zipped almost to the neck — casual, not ready for hockey, but dressed for time on the ice. He was taller and broader than Ilya would expect of a figure skater, thighs clearly thick and strong even half-hidden in the sweatpants. His glossy black hair pulled back in a small bun and almond-shaped eyes betrayed his Asian heritage, but what gave Ilya's eyes a pause was the constellation of freckles generously dusted over his high cheekbones and straight, strong nose.

"Hi everyone," he said with a hesitant smile and a smooth voice, "and thank you for the short introduction. I can't wait to get started with you."

His voice directed Ilya's attention to his lips, and the sight of the lush, pink mouth felt almost like a punch to the chest.

Shane Hollander was beautiful. Maybe even the prettiest man Ilya had ever seen.

"And don't worry, I do know hockey. I'm from Ottawa, played hockey as a kid, and later trained beside hockey players in Montréal for years," he explained, the t dropping from the Quebecois pronunciation of the city name. A groan of discontent rolled through the crowd and Shane lifted his hands in an apologetic gesture.

"We'll try not to hold it against you," Marlow called, and the groan transformed into laughter. Shane laughed too, and the lift of his cheeks highlighted the freckles in a way that sent a familiar bolt of hunger through Ilya. He wondered if the freckles spread underneath his clothes, an image of a pale-skinned shoulder speckled with freckles rising unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He wanted to bite into that and watch his own marks bloom beside the dots.

"Hollander is going to be watching you all do your thing today, and then focus on the rookies first, but everyone is going to get sessions with him!" Le Claire's yell broke both Ilya's inappropriate thoughts and the hum of laughter. "How exactly it's gonna work is up to him, within the time restraints we have in general. I want you all to be fucking perfect before the end of this season. I want you all to give your everything to reach that next level we've been missing for the last four seasons."

Spread nods and vocal affirmations from the players, while the rookies simply looked awestruck. LeClaire nodded at Ilya, who took the cue.

"Okay, you fuckers, welcome back. Let's hope you rookies have something, or the new coach can help, because we fucking need it to get what we want. And I want it this year," Ilya drawled, skating slowly up past the coaching team as he spoke, eyes roaming over the prospects. A few looked promising — a huge beast of a guy and two scrappy guys that'd probably make a great defensemen if they could keep up. Three young kids he recognised from tapes he'd watched on Le Claire's request over the summer, a new draftee and two from their lower league team that might be ready for the bump up. "We can not rely on other teams to fuck up. We can not hope they get injuries. We will be better and we will win, yes?"

A scattered response of "yes"'es filled the rink as Ilya slowed to a stop close to Hollander.

"Good. Now follow Coach LeClaire like good little chickens," he ended with a nod and a shooing motion of his free hand not carrying his stick. The loose assembly broke up and both the other two assisting coaches began yelling instructions along with LeClaire. Ilya turned to face the new skater.

"Shane Hollander," he said slowly with a smile, stuffing his glove in his armpit to reach out a hand to shake. He met Hollander's dark eyes, and was once again assaulted with the view of the smattering of freckles adorning his pretty face.

"Ilya Rozanov," Hollander replied and grabbed his hand, "I've been looking forward to working with you. Your style is very aggressive and explosive, but I think we can concentrate that power even more."

His hands were harder than Ilya expected, clearly marked with the callouses of someone who used his hands in training. Weightlifting maybe? Up close, it was clear that Hollander kept himself in a very good shape, his shoulders wide and square.

"You are bigger than skaters are, usually," Ilya remarked and inclined his head to the man's shoulders, "Normally, they have bodies like sticks."

Hollander's face did something strange, but settled in bemusement. "Pair skating is a bit different. The man has to be big enough to do throws and lifts with his partner," he explained, releasing Ilya's hand to lift his arms above his head, as if to give a demonstration of how he'd hold a partner high. It only succeeded in making the fleece raise up and give a view of his incredibly trim waist in the charcoal compression shirt tucked into the waistband of his sweats, which was folded over once on itself. Ilya's urge to search for freckles to bite returned twice-fold.

"Don't mind Roz, he was raised by Russian wolves and never learnt any manners," St. Simone's lilting voice came from behind Ilya, where his two A's had skated up to meet the new coach too. Marlow and St. Simone were both enormous guys even out of gear, and they cut imposing figures all geared up like now. Hollander seemed used to the physicality of hockey players, not looking intimidated as he reached a hand out to shake again.

"He's just being blunt, right?" Hollander said, a pleasant and slightly stiff smile fixed on his face. Sainty answered in a quick rattle of French, which made Hollander bark out a short laugh and answer in the same curling language.

"Blyat, not one more," Ilya complained as Marlow greeted him as well.

"You're not leaving a great impression, Cap," Marlow rumbled in his deep voice. Hollander's smile turned smaller, but it made it look a bit more sincere.

"Really, Rozanov's reputation precedes him. I already know he's an asshole," Hollander said with a shrug, which made Marlow and St. Simone burst out laughing while Ilya gasped theatrically, placing a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

Le Claire's sharp voice interrupted them. "Hollander!"

The man in question nodded at the three players and pushed off to skate to where LeClaire had collected a bunch of rookies and potential call-ups. His stride was incredibly smooth and natural, skates gliding almost soundlessly over the ice in the dim of the talking in the rink; He definitely moved like someone who spent almost more time on the ice than off it. It was a different kind of confidence of movement that Ilya and his players had, which was more raw and often aggressive in style. Shane Hollander moved on the ice like he was a part of it, smooth, unforgiving, and beautiful.

Even though he kept part of his focus on the drills and training, Ilya still ended up using a significant part of the day watching Hollander. He had a laser focus on whatever he was observing and a not unkind, but very direct way of guiding and correcting issues. His movements were such a contrast to the new players' rough edges and clumsy turns, but Ilya could already see how and why it could end up benefiting the entire team to get the figure skating exercises worked into the rutine—and the practical example came quick when Hollander wove and spun between the players as they were almost close to hitting him, avoiding intentional or accidental checks with little fanfare.

Maybe a bit of fanfare, honestly. Ilya could see he wasn't the only one of the seasoned players—they had collected at one end of the rink to do some low-effort shooting and passing drills and gossip like old women—who'd been shooting looks at their new coach to gauge what he'd be able to bring to the team.

At one point, Hollander shed the fleece and tied it around his hips in the way figure skaters seemed so fond of. It showed off the skin-tight compression shirt he was wearing underneath and just how an incredible shape he was in, the muscles of his upper body well-defined, swelling and stretching with his movements. He wasn't quite as built as many of the players were straight off of bulking in the off-season, but he was definitely not weak. A key-strap of childishly big plastic beads of alternating black and gold in no discernible pattern hung around his neck, and near the clip that held his keycard, six beads broke the colour scheme with a colourful pop of a classic rainbow.

This is going to become dangerous, Ilya couldn't help but think to himself, almost turning a bit lightheaded as he watched Hollander bend at the waist to adjust the ties of one skate, showcasing both great balance and the greatest fucking ass Ilya had ever had the pleasure of looking at.

It took some effort to focus on their own drills, but Ilya managed; It wasn't like they were being very serious about on the first day of training camp anyway. Most of the players had half their focus on the rookies anyway, trying to gauge who would be the most promising prospects. They did have a few spots open on the roster due to trades and two retirements and the rookies all knew, so they were doing their very best to listen to the coaches and showcase their best from day one.

Marlow told the story of "breaking in" and seasoning the new grill he'd gotten over the summer and threatened a large barbecue get-together when the team was more set, maybe before the preseason games began. Connors bragged about a vacation to Italy with his girlfriend Rachel, while simultaneously complaining about the Italian coffee culture. Ilya stayed mostly quiet and just gave a shrug when asked about his summer.

"You went back home this time?" Carmichael asked as they slapped pucks between them.

"Nyet. I wanted to experience the Boston summer," Ilya said, keeping his eyes down on the moving sticks.

"And so, what's your thought on it?" Marlow grinned as he slipped past, weaving a puck back and forth between the other players.

"The weather is shit," he exclaimed, prompting laughter from the teammates who overheard, "Too hot, too wet and sweaty."

They ribbed him for it for a while, teasing him for his Russian nature and love of cold, fresh air. They all knew he didn't have the best relationship with his home country or family, so no one prodded more than necessary. Ilya loved them a bit for it, since leaving his country for good had been a touchy subject for him in the year that had gone since he'd left the last time, when he had left the apartment to his brother and set up the secured trust fund for his niece. Andrei had threatened to keep his niece from him for a very long time and even refused to let them meet for that last visit, which in turn pushed Ilya to finally close off that connection in his life. Katya would be able to contact him if she wished; He had left a letter in a bank box for when she was old enough.

Temlett, a mediocre-to-good defenseman on the third line, joined Carmy and Ilya to flip a few pucks. He was just starting his third season with the Bears and Ilya knew enough of him to know he was only joining to either schmooze for the captain or gossip.

"So, what do you think the deal is with the new coach?"

Gossip, then.

"I mean, having the same skating coach will probably help a lot, instead of the temporary consulting ones we've been using over the last couple of years," Carmy said, pausing to let Ilya and Temlett juggle between them.

Temlett wrinkled his nose and missed a puck from Ilya. "I mean, I get he's good at skating, but do you really think a pansy like that will make a difference for us?"

Almost feeling more than seeing Carmy stiffen slightly, Ilya straightened, letting the puck Temlett had passed glide right past him as he skated towards Temlett, pushing a gloved finger against his chest. They were fairly close, and even though Ilya hit him quickly, he continued and pushed them back towards the wall behind Temlett.

"I have said before and I will say again. No shit like that on my ice, on my team," Ilya said, voice hard and steady like the ice beneath their skates. "You have any Olympic gold medals, no? Then shut the fuck up."

Temlett's back hit the wall behind him, his face turning ashy pale underneath his dark summer tan, which was a very fair reaction when faced with an angry Rozanov.

"It's not a big deal" Temlett said nervously, shooting looks behind his captain to see they've drawn a bit of a crowd, although it doesn't look like LeClaire has noticed yet. Even then, they all knew LeClaire trusted Rozanov to nip problems in the bud and to be fair about it too.

"Is a big deal. They hired fancy gold medal skater to teach you to skate, so you listen to Coach and keep your fucking shit opinion to yourself." Ilya emphasized the three words with pokes to Temlett's chest. "Even better," he continued, voice dropping lower, almost into a growl, "stop being a bigot and I'll let you keep your teeth, yes?"

Temlett gulped and nodded enthusiastically. Ilya clapped his hand twice on his face, just a tiny bit too hard to be friendly, before he skated away. Carmichael was shaking his head as they picked up the pucks again. Temlett was smart enough to make himself scarce and started doing some stick-handling drills by himself.

Ilya caught the eye of LeClaire across the rink and gave a nod, which the coach received with a nod as well, before his eyes snagged on Hollander, who were closer than Ilya had expected. Beside him with three of the rookies, whose eyes were wide at the display from their potential captain.

Hollander's eyes were following Ilya closely, arms crossed and his face stiff in a thoughtful expression, which made Ilya believe that he might have been close enough to overhear the exchange. Ilya let himself smirk in a way he knew would be very handsome and sent a wink to the new coach, whose expression turned carefully blank as he turned back towards the rookies to get them focused on their drills again. Ilya could just hear his voice, smooth and direct in a way that made the young ones listen closely.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading! Leave a comment if the weather is right.

Love ya. UHN!

Chapter 2: heating

Chapter Notes

Hello, it's been a month and I realised that chapter 2 got way too long to fit my idea, so it's gotten broken up into two. This means the first half is ready for posting, and I hope you enjoy how it's shaping up.

Thank you to everyone who has subscribed!

The everyday routine quickly established itself in the preseason training schedule. The veterans weren't expected to show up for all trainings, but they all made an effort to get back on the ice and back in sync with each other.

Coach LeClaire set up scrimmages with the rookies and prospects scattered throughout the lines to let them experience the rush of playing with some of the very best in the league. One of the scrappy-looking guys Ilya had noticed on that first day showed a lot of promise and would probably find place in rotation on the third or fourth line. A lanky guy who'd clearly not caught up to his latest growth spurt showed a lot of promise as a forward, quick on the ice with snappy movements, but off the ice, his head was in the clouds and he stumbled over every little bump like he still quite hadn't figured out when his legs and arms ended. Coach Marc most likely already had a meal plan and an extensive weight-lifting program for the kid to follow to match his weight and width to his height. With a bit of help, Tamson—or Trips, as he'd quickly earned as a nickname—would be a force to recon with.

Trips was also one of the first to get an intensive with Hollander, rookies plucked from regular training in groups of five to stay two hours after regular training, to train their edges and stride on the ice. Most of the young ones were fairly good skaters at it was, or else they wouldn't reach training camp at the Boston Bears, but they were nowhere near the level of the vets on the team. So Hollander took them through through the basics, forcing them to drill their c-curves and crossovers with jumps as if they'd only been on the ice for months and not years.

Ilya hid himself in the stands on one of the days Trips' group stayed late, to get a look at what Hollander was working with—and how he was working with the players. Freshly showered and clad in dark grey athleisure, he sat low in a chair and chewed on the string of his hoodie as he observed.

Hollander oozed a calm, professional confidence on the ice that matched his beautiful stride. He clearly expected to be respected and heard, and the rookies reacted instinctively to it. No one could really blame them for listening to the young coach, because he was an Olympian and highly decorated in various medals, both nationally and internationally, and he had the air of experience that most of the rookies recognised. Only a few seemed to disregard Hollander to some level, but they were also not at all in contention to get added to the Bears' roster, so it didn't bother Ilya much.

Hollander was holding a hockey stick as he went through drills and used it to either guide a puck along, or even poke at the bodies to emphasise or direct them. For a professional like Ilya, it was very clear that Hollander had actual experience with a stick like that; He wasn't just a figure skater with a hockey stick, but rather someone who had actually been playing a decent amount of hockey at some point. His stick looked like an extension of his arm, moving even more naturally than several of the rookies' attempts.

Played hockey as a kid, indeed, Ilya thought to himself as he watched them slide on the ice, brain and body automatically soothed by the well-knows sssshhhk-sssshhhk-noises of skates across ice. Considering his size and apparent skill, he probably could have pursued hockey as a career, and it made Ilya wonder why he hadn't. Despite Temlett's idiotic words, he didn't assume anything, although the beaded key strap with the classic six-coloured rainbow—which Ilya had learnt was made by the Montreal player Hayden Pike's children—did look terribly intentional.

Hollander was wearing the same kind of compression shirt underneath a zippered fleece, but his sweatpants were black and better sized, which only resulted in a tighter fit around his muscular thighs. Many of the exercises required them to crouch low to the ice, showcasing Hollanders ample ass to Ilya. He knew it was stupid, but sitting half-hidden an undetected as he was, he let himself appreciate Hollander's power and beauty alike. He rarely sought out his attraction to men these days, not wanting to invite disaster on either his career or his Russian passport, but it felt somewhat safe here in the stands of his own rink.

For once, he let his eyes slide over square shoulders he imagined might also be spotted with the same constellation of freckles as his face, imagined his own hands clamped around the slim waist. He would probably be able to reach more than halfway around Hollander's waist with his hands, callouses rough on soft skin. His thighs would be deliciously firm and thick around Ilya's hips, something different to the women Ilya normally fucked, a difference he was suddenly sorely missing.

Even before the rookies left the rink, Ilya had worked himself into more than just a half-chub imagining how Hollander would look underneath him, open and wanting. He knew it bordered on creepy, but he was used to his own insatiable libido enough to know that it wouldn't influence his time on or off the ice. Maybe unless Hollander was interested in letting it.

To not get caught on the way out with a visible boner in his loose post-training sweats, he stayed in the stands as the ice cleared after the training session, pulling out his phone to go through his emails. Contrary to popular belief, he was quite dutifully answering and following up on admin emails related to either the Bears or some of the brand deals his agent had secured. A couple of notes on the prospects from the coaches was waiting for him, and he forced himself to focus on reading them through and leaving his own comments for the coaching team to use. It also had the benefit of killing the boner quickly and efficiently for now, but he knew he'd have no trouble getting back to it when he returned home.

Engrossed as he was, he only noticed the Zamboni hadn't started up yet when the sound of a single set of skates on ice picked up again. Looking up from the screen, his eyes caught on the black-clad figure of Hollander now back on the ice alone, wearing a different set of much slimmer-fitting pants and skates. The sight made Ilya sit up a bit straighter, not only to appreciate the tight pants, but also because he was honestly a bit excited to get a look at Hollander in his own discipline. He'd watched videos, of course, of how easily Hollander glided and spun across ice and how his biceps bunched when he lifted the waif of a women that had been his partner, hands big but gentle on her waist and thighs.

Now, Hollander was alone on the ice, zipping back and forth in a warmup. It was mesmerising to watch the difference from the hockey skating to the figure skating, his movements just as precise and snappy, but now much softer and voluminous in a sense. On hockey skates, he was tightly controlled and curled up for explosive movement. On these skates, he let his body take up as much space as possible, arms reaching out, legs stretching at every opportunity. His movements invited eyes to land on him, reeling in attention like a fish hook. Ilya could almost feel the hook burrowing underneath his breastbone, tugging.

Watching now, it was clear that Hollander had put on a decent amount of muscle over the last months, compared to the video of the gold-winning routine Ilya had studied, most likely preparing for the very different kind of training he'd now be coaching.

The speed and power Hollander moved with on the ice was enchanting. Ilya was fairly sure he could reach a speed going backwards that most rookies couldn't match going forward. He even did a few jumps and spins, the rhythmic noise of skating abruptly broken by the aggressive sound of the toe picks on the ice and the ksshhhh as he landed gracefully. A few times, he wobbled on the landing, but skated on seemingly without notice, and it was clear to Ilya that this ice time was maybe not in the spirit of keeping up on proficiencies, but instead finding solace in movements of muscle memory.

It didn't take long before the Zamboni driver called out to Hollander, who gave a wave and looped back towards the bench. Ilya stayed seated in the stands a while longer, lost in his own thoughts.

Unsurprisingly, Ilya was part of the last grouping to get an intensive with Hollander, along with Marlow and St. Simone. They'd already played one preseason game against Minnesota, which they'd lost in overtime. Not a great start to the season, but Ilya didn't let it worry him much. Their focus had been more on giving the new people on the roster some ice time, including Trips, a scrappy-looking defenceman named Spencer, and a newly traded Finnish left wing, Itkonen. They were still figuring out how to make the plays feel natural, to anticipate plays and move together rather than around each other.

Hollander had been a constant presence for their trainings generally, always watching from rink-side, or on skates sometimes. Even if they'd only had him as a skating coach for about a month, Ilya could see exactly why switching from consultants to a permanent coach was the right choice. Of course the consultants had sometimes been working with them for months at a time, and several had been retired figure skaters as well, but Hollander had the perfect mix of the precision of figure skating and the power of hockey, as well as a feeling of belonging. The team of coaches obviously did their very best to include their new colleague where they hadn't included earlier consultants, but the team of players also quickly grew to respect the man greatly. They'd watched a couple videos of his routines, and along with his dexterity with the hockey sticks and a surprisingly snappy slapshot, no one questioned his abilities.

After Temlett's comments on the first day, Ilya had taken some time to talk directly to a select few of the team and most of the rookies, cementing his stance on that bullshit. It was clear that he wouldn't be able to get rid of all the hostility, but at least it made them keep it to themselves—they knew their Captain meant business and his business was winning Cups.

During the last month, Ilya had also quickly realised that he greatly enjoyed annoying Hollander, poking fun at whatever he could find. That was most often his clothes—the man seemingly owned nothing but athleisure—or his unchanging rotation of lunches, and twice, his reluctance to go out with the team for a night out.

"I don't drink during the season," Hollander had explained as excuse, which made Ilya blow a raspberry.

"You are not even a player, Hollander, why would it matter?"

Ilya enjoyed watching Hollander's brows twitch minutely and his lips flatten in irritation so much, his deep brown eyes glaring daggers at Ilya's smirk. As long as it kept Hollander's eyes on Ilya.

"I just don't enjoy it," he'd ground out then, which only made Ilya grin wider.

"Ah, Hollander, you should just say. We can get virgin drinks for you!"

He still hadn't joined a party, even though both LeClaire and Marc made a habit of showing up now and then. And while Ilya had enjoyed himself and the women he met, he was still both wishing and dreading for the time Hollander would join. Seeing Hollander in something else than sports clothes would most likely make Ilya's penchant for boners when thinking of Hollander even worse, and coupled with a glass or two of vodka, it might end up a disaster. Up until now, he'd hidden himself fairly well from the team with "is he gay or is he European"-jokes, but the hunger that clawed at Ilya's chest when imaging a dancing, sweating Hollander in the colourful darkness of their regular club was a beast to be reckoned with.

For their first intensive with Hollander, they stayed just an hour after training, two days before their next preseason game. Hollander was well-informed of their skating styles and skills at this point, so they got shorter training time for more specialised exercises. He still took them through some of the basics, which Ilya respected, although he'd never admit it. Marlow absolutely grumbled over doing basic c-curves and cross-overs across the rink while Hollander slid gracefully along the three of them, carrying a hockey stick that he used to point out issues and form.

"There," Hollander said suddenly, tapping the outside of Marlow's left ankle with the end of the blade, "You let yourself fall into the curve too much and it limits your speed and movement. Look at Rozanov."

It took a fair deal of effort to keep his stride smooth, because Ilya's last name slipped out of Hollander's mouth in a Russian lilt, the vowels open and the different rhythm painfully familiar.

"I can still see Bondarev's influence on you, sometimes," Hollander commented to Ilya when they took a break a bit later.

"Bondarev?" Marlow asked, breathing heavy from the workout. They'd been doing drill after drill to get sharper turns without missing speed, something they were already decent at, but their new coach of course had pointers and a stick great at pointing out bad habits.

"One of my Russian coaches, from childhood. You know Bondarev?" Ilya asked, trying not to let his heaving chest influence his voice too much.

"More like I've trained with and competed against a bunch of people he trained," Hollander explained. He suddenly seemed almost embarrassed, looking down at where his stick touched the ice.

Ilya gleefully smirked. "Ah, is that why you say my name like Russian too?"

Marlow and St. Simone both looked at Ilya. "Like what?" St. Simone asked.

"Rozanov," Shane replied before Ilya opened his mouth—Ra-ZAH-nahv, the r rolling softly in the back of his throat. The pronunciation wasn't perfect, but endlessly better than the Americanised version he heard just about every day. He only got to hear his name spoken truly when he visited the Russian bodega every now and then, since Volkov traded out two years ago. Itkonen, speaking about as much as could be expected from a Finn, had only used his nicknames so far, although Ilya suspected he would know the right way to say his name as well.

"Have we just been saying it wrong all this time?" St. Simone asked, scratching his chin. He did look almost embarrassed by the idea.

Ilya shrugged. "Yes, but you always say Roz or Rozy anyway, I like that better. Is only league and some commentators now. I don't mind."

"Brother, I feel bad now," Marlow said as he slapped a hand on Ilya's shoulder, which made Hollander flash a short smile. It bunched up the freckles on his face beautifully.

"Do not. At least you don't butcher my first name—Eel-ee-ya, they say, three syllables and a long slimy fish, eurgh," he complained with a wrinkled nose. Just at he'd hoped, it made both his teammates guffaw and made Hollander's smile stick to his face longer this time.

"So, can Coach coach us on how to say that correctly too?"

"It's Ilya," Hollander said just as their eyes met, tone just a bit softer in a way that made that fish hook in Ilya's chest burrow deeper, making a fuzzy, warm-cold feeling spread. His pronunciation was perfect, two short syllables that curled sweetly around his tongue. Ilya kind of wanted to feel how Hollander's tongue would curl around his name with a Ilya's thumb in his mouth. He knew that line of thought could quickly become very dangerous, so he clapped once to break their focus.

"Yes, beautiful Russian lesson, but I want to see how fast we can be with new tricks."

It didn't take them long to get a small course set up with plastic cones, and then they took turns to race while Hollander took their times. It felt very much like playing and fucking around, and their laughter rang across the rink when Marlow missed a maneuver around a corner and fell as long as he was in a tangle of limbs. He managed to starfish out and use his considerable size and weight to take enough speed off before he hit the boards softly, breathlessly coughing out a near hysterical laugh when Ilya fell over from his own laughter at the sight of Marlow's crash.

Ilya also continually egged Hollander on in an attempt to get him to take a run, to prove that Ilya would be the faster. He was faster than both his teammates by a considerable margin, which was unsurprising, as he'd won the speed competition at All Stars just about every time he'd competed over the years.

"You will have advantage with less gear, no? Should be easy win," Ilya remarked as he slid slowly past Hollander, chest heaving after his latest run. The coach scoffed.

"Our skills aren't completely comparable," he started explaining, "You have a natural advantage because you train to be quick. I trained to be precise and graceful, not fast and strong."

"Plenty strong now, yes?" Ilya said, letting his eyes roam pointedly down Hollanders body. When he flicked his eyes back up to his face, he gleefully found that a blush made the freckles even more prominent. "And as you say, you are from Ottawa and know hockey. Should at least be faster than Marlow."

His comment made Marlow yell out a hey! from the other side of the rink. Hollander only rolled his eyes and bent over to check his laces, once again feeding numerous pictures in Ilya's brain that was in no way appropriate for the workplace.

"Is Hollzy gonna race?" St. Simone yelled across the ice, "I'll time you! We know Roz ain't impartial!"

Ilya gasped, playing dramatically offended with his left hand placed on his heart. "No trust in your Captain!"

Hollander laughed softly, and the hook dug and dug and dug.

Since he'd been skating along with them, Hollander was already halfway warm, but he still gestured for them to wait as he skated once around the rink and stretched a bit, before nodding at St. Simone, who'd been entrusted with the stopwatch. All three players lined up at the blue line, the coach a bit further back to be able to get a running start like them. Ilya wouldn't have wanted to look away from him if he could have—the bunching of his thighs as he crouched down and pushed off was mesmerising. He moved just as explosively as Ilya's teammates had, but every sharp movement was visible without the thick gear. He was already a blur as he passed the line and St. Simone started the clock.

Watching him skate around the rink, taking the sharp turns and wide curves just like the players had, was as close to a religious experience as Ilya had ever been. Every movement betrayed his athletes body, muscles strong and so incredibly controlled. Unlike the players, he looked a lot more like he flew across the ice, legs still pumping aggressively and arms working to keep balance, the hockey stick leading the way for his every movement. But Hollander was so graceful, even in this almost violent show of raw speed and power in maneuvering, and Ilya had never seen anything as beautiful before.

"You look like you want to eat him," Marlow murmured lowly as they watched, St. Simone just as enraptured.

"I will do more than eat him," Ilya answered just a lowly. Marlow was one of the few who knew about his sexuality, had even bumped into a very satisfied Ilya leaving a club bathroom with a flush-cheeked pretty boy once. He hadn't cared, just thrown Ilya a smirk and a wink.

Hollander moved with the grace of a figure skating and the power of hockey. He was incredibly comfortable in the hockey skates and it was clear that his body understood how to utilise the hockey stick for control and direction. It was a dizzying mix of competences unlike anything.

St. Simone whooped loudly as their coach rounded the last corner and sped forward over the blue line. Hollander straightened as he blurred past them, face alight in a wide grin Ilya had never seen before. He looped around lazily, working off the speed of the race.

"Coach, what the fuck!" St. Simone crowed, hands waving over his head, "Almost as fast as Roz!"

Marlow laughed heartily at Ilya's flushed face.

"That corner," Ilya stated, pointing with the stick he was still holding, "you did something with the turn, show me again."

Hollander's face was still open and happy, sweat starting to bead along his hairline, and he stuffed his gloved under his arm before running a hand over the black wispies that had worked themselves free from the bun at the back of his head. His brown doe eyes sparkled as they met Ilya's.

Chapter End Notes

Big love for Connor Storrie and his accent/language work, which I also have a bit of a special interest for, so I just needed a nod to that through Shane. He does not speak Russian for this fic, but he's spent a lot more time with Russian-speaking skaters on a personal level, so it made sense to me that he'd pick up on the pronunciation of some things.

I'll be back! At some point! It might turn heated!

Chapter 3: burn

Chapter Notes

Taking advantage of a national holiday and a day off to get to the good stuff.

I am going to add a note on Shane, since he's a bit different, more confident and open than in HR. This is a direct consequence of choosing a more open-minded sport as a child, because either him or his parents picked up on some kind of discomfort with the locker rooms way earlier. This means he was placed in a professional space that made him be able to recognise and come to terms with his sexuality much more easily.

Slight trigger warning for a brief mention of HIV status. In honour of our lord and saviour Jacob Tierney, and from the idea that Shane needs a bit of trauma spice, one of his earliest relationships got him infected with HIV because his partner wasn't careful and didn't disclose his status to Shane. It was discovered quickly due to medical checkups he had as a professional athlete, and he treats it very carefully and had been undetectable for years. Ilya knows undetectable means untransmittable and makes his choices with full understanding.

Be safe out there, friends. Now... let's go! Let's earn the rating.

In the end, both Marlow and St. Simone was long gone from the locker room by the time they finished working through drills. One thing was enjoying the physicality of Hollander and his incredible body, but another thing was the competence he exudes in every movement, turn, and slide. It fascinated Ilya in the way it only could, one elite-level expert to another—Ilya was hungry for the opportunity for improvement of a kind he honestly hadn't had in a while. So they went over their allotted time slot and ended up having to be chased off the ice by the Zamboni, which had to run to make the ice suitable for the ice skaters who apparently had booked a time slot.

With the advantage of no hockey gear, Hollander had already moved to the showers by the time Ilya was ready to wash of the sweat from the training and their additional races. His thighs burned deliciously, which almost overshadowed the warmth in his belly at the thought of getting into the shower with Hollander. It was a test of his willpower to not stride into the showers with his dick already chubbing up, but he was very set on not being an actual creep about his raging attraction to his coach. Sure, he would absolutely be shameless and take as much of a look as he felt like, but Ilya refused to get caught and make Hollander uncomfortable, apparent queerness and interest notwithstanding. He had plenty of practice staring subtly at men in the showers. He'd been on teams with a great deal of hot hockey players over his career, both in Boston and for the All Stars games, and he'd quickly learnt how to be subtly appreciative of great bodies in spaces where one wasn't technically mean to look.

Hollander was standing facing the wall as Ilya walked in, giving the perfect opportunity for Ilya to get a long-lasting look over the water sluicing down his broad shoulders to his trim waist corded with muscles. His skin was warm-toned and smooth all over, although his shoulders bore a richer, pink tint from the hot water. The dip along the length his spine collected water that ran straight down across the two divots over his shapely ass, adorned by faint silver stretchmarks visible in the harsh overhead lighting. His thighs were wide and strong as trunks, even thicker than Ilya's own, calves well-developed and dusted in surprisingly fine black hair that collected in lines of water.

Ilya forced himself to walk to a shower-head a few spaces down from this walking, talking fantasy of a man, taking in the shift of his back muscles as he ran his hands over his soaked hair, which lay black and shining, plastered against his neck. Ilya tamped down the images in his head of twisting his fingers into the hair and pulling, guiding, of how the flesh of Hollander's ass would spill through his fingers if he squeezed, or maybe show a hand-shaped mark in that delightful pink tone from his shoulders if lovingly slapped or harshly grabbed. No creepiness, just appreciation for later, Ilya insisted in his own mind, shifting his eyes to stare into the tiled wall in front of him as he moved to soap his own body up.

It wasn't long before Ilya realised the splashes of movement under the spray had stopped to his right side, even though the water was still running. In the corner of his eye, he could tell that Hollander hadn't left the shower yet, and his neck started to prickle with the sense that Ilya was being watched.

Ilya had never been the sort to be any kind of ashamed of his own body—to be completely honest, it might be the only thing he'd never been ashamed of. He knew exactly how he looked, how muscular his training made him and how it had shaped his body into perfection. Some of it was just good genetics, but he also clearly put effort into his body. He wasn't that unfamiliar with being subjected to sneaky looks in the locker room and he knew he'd caused a small riot on social media when his Calvin Klein advertisement dropped last year. So he let himself move casually under the spray as if he wasn't deliberately putting himself on display, sliding a soaped hand down his chest and over his hip as he turned to face the other man in the shower.

What did surprise him a little bit was that he did not meet Hollander's eyes, because they were very much occupied skittering around further down his body. Ilya paused his turn, facing him fully and let himself lean back a bit on one leg. This time, the shift did make Hollander's eyes snap up to meet Ilya's, and his face reddened quickly and deeply.

Hollander was not quite facing him, but Ilya was able to let his eyes slide down his body in a way he knew would almost be felt physically. Hollander was leaner than Ilya, but clearly just as trained, and even fully relaxed, the outline of his abdominal were visible. Being so early in the season and close after the summer bulk, Ilya couldn't show off any six-pack easily like that; That would come later in the season, and definitely if they reached the grueling play-offs.

Most noticeable, though, was Hollander's dick, just as pretty as the rest of the man and definitely more than half-hard—it even jumped a little when Ilya's eyes landed on it. He felt himself smirk wide and satisfied as he looked back up to Hollander's wide brown eyes and lifted his eyebrows.

"Fuck off," he murmured and turned away from Ilya, blush deepening the pink tint to his shoulders. Ilya simply waited, scrubbing his hands across his body to clean himself, and just as he expected, Hollander's eyes flitted back to him in no time.

Can't be creepy if he's looking too, Ilya thought almost deliriously and moved his hand down with purpose to his own cock, which had also started thickening with arousal. He curled his fingers around himself loosely and gave it a languid stroke.

Hollander's pink lips parted just a bit as he stared at Ilya slowly working himself, eyes wide and shining as he stared at Ilya's hand on his own cock. The water kept running over both of them, and the view of the water running over and even a bit into Hollanders slightly opened mouth was mesmerising. Ilya let his head tip back slightly as he kept staring at Hollander's face, whose eyes snapped up to meet his briefly.

"Not here," Hollander gritted out, turning off the water and fleeing the showers before Ilya had time to react.

Ilya deliberately took his time, so when he finally emerged from the showers, towel wrapped a tad too low on his hips for a normal day in the locker room, Hollander had already packed up and was gone. It was fine—Ilya didn't want to push him too much, and he was more than satisfied with what he'd gained today, both in terms of technique and training, as well as the knowledge that Hollander was turned on by him. Furthermore, his comment of not here was especially intriguing; It must've meant he would, which excited Ilya even more that he truly wanted to admit.

Ilya had had more than his fair share of casual hookups during his life already; He liked sex. He liked the pleasure, the rush of adrenaline and oxytocin, the calmness it lent his head for a while. More than that, he liked giving others pleasure, watching people fall apart sweetly by his hands, tongue, or cock. One girl had been particularly interested in his toes, but he'd managed to steer her in another direction. Not that he did not hold back on a bit of spice and freakiness now and then, but feet just wasn't his jam.

Brown doe eyes over a field of freckles and thighs thick enough to ride him straight through to his second orgasm was more interesting. Maybe his hand on a strong neck, another wrapped around wrists held to the small of a back. Drool and maybe even tears soaking into a pillow.

It took an irritated growl and some creative positioning to get his sweatpants back on without it being too obvious that he'd thickened up once again at the thoughts of what he'd love to do with Hollander. Maybe he should have finished himself off in the shower to make it a bit easier for himself, but he'd rather save it for when he got home and could spend a sweet while on it. His view in the shower today would absolutely be enough for a good time, even better now that he knew Hollander was at least some kind of interested. Ilya would feel less guilty jerking off to a guy when he knew there was mutual attraction.

On his way out, he bumped into one of the social media interns in the hallway, a bright-eyed, small waif of a woman. They always had a few questions to ask, always looking for content, you know, and he readily answered with a friendly smile. He followed her up towards the offices, since it wasn't much out of his way to his car, as she talked about a new trend they'd try to get a few players filmed for. It was something about being asked random questions when walking onto the ice during practice, and Ilya volunteered easily for the next training.

"Rozanov? A minute?"

The call of his name behind them made him look up and back. Shane Hollander was leaning out from the door of his small office, face carefully blank as he called on Ilya using the Americanised inflection. Despite the apparent nonchalance, Ilya could spot the blush at the top of his cheekbones.

"Ah, captain duties call," he told the intern—Erica?—with an apologetic shrug. She just nodded with a smile and hugged her stack of papers and the laptop to her chest before hurrying further down the hallway. Ilya turned his body just a tad slower than he normally would and managed to catch the millisecond Hollander's eyes moved up from his ass to his face. He let himself prowl forward with a smirk as Hollander's blush spread to the tips of his ears.

They were both silent until Hollander had closed the door behind Ilya, who placed himself in the middle of the small room. The office was really no bigger than absolutely necessary to hold a medium-sized desk with a laptop and an ergonomic chair behind it, as well as a single chair for visitors, a small waist-high cabinet to the side that carried numerous books and a couple of photos placed on top, beside a framed certification of some kind and a glass trophy for an award, similar to the Rookie of the Year award Ilya had at home. The photos were obviously one of his parents and one of Hollander and his skating partner on the ice, smiling with gold medals around their neck. She was strikingly beautiful, red hair flowing in beautifully styled curls, long legs ensuring her height matched the fairly tall Hollander well. Hollander in the photo was almost strange to look at, decked out in a glittering outfit that very much highlighted how much slimmer the man had been. Still very muscular and strong, but there was no doubt he'd put on a significant amount of muscle mass since transitioning to the role as a hockey coach.

Ilya did not mind this one tiny bit.

"A minute, Hollander? Not having much faith in yourself?" Ilya asked teasingly, finally breaking the silence. Hollander was still standing against the closed door, no more than five feet between them. His brow furrowed in irritation.

"Shut up, Rozanov," he said, this time in the Russian way that never failed to make excitement shoot through Ilya's stomach. The back of his skull buzzed faintly with anticipation from the thought that they were actually doing this.

"Mmh, no, I don't think so," Ilya replied and started to take a step to close the distance between them, but halted when Hollander held up a finger.

"I'm going to say this first, because someone did not tell me, and it was pretty fucking shitty of them. I am HIV positive. Medicated and undetectable, so untransmittable too, but still."

Hollander's voice was clear and steady, although Ilya could easily see the tension in his body at the admission. It did make Ilya's stomach feel like it was dropping briefly, but he steadied himself.

"Did not tell you, is that how you…?" Ilya asked, voice softer than before. Hollander nodded, eyes on something on the wall past Ilya's shoulder.

"Yeah. He was not taking his medication. It got caught very early in the medical checks though."

Ilya hummed again, then took a deliberately slow step forward. "Yes, very shitty of him."

Hollander's eyes found his as he stepped forward again, closing the distance between them. His eyes were big and expressive, the brown almost indiscernible from the black pupils in the weak overhead lighting. His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, tension bleeding out in favour of heat when Ilya neared, and the hot print of Hollander's hands on his waist warmed the curl of arousal up his spine.

Hollander's shining eyes dropped to Ilya's lips when he spoke again. "Untransmittable is good, yes? I think you are not the kind to forget medication." He didn't answer as Ilya lifted a hand to grab his jaw delicately, running a thumb across his chin, the very tip brushing against his bottom lip, which slackened and parted just a bit, breath rushing out. Close as they were, Ilya noticed that they truly were the same height, aligned perfectly.

"This is such a bad idea," Hollander mumbled, eyes still downcast, stuck on Ilya's lips, but his fingers flexed on Ilya's waist, pulling him in another inch. Ilya hummed low again before using his grasp on Hollander's jaw to angle his face closer to his own.

The first kiss was soft, brief, and slightly tentative, mostly just a press of lips against each other. Hollander's lips were silky and plush like pillows and his fingertips flexed again at Ilya's waist. Their lips parted only briefly as Hollander used his grip on Ilya's body to pull him back in, slotting their lips together more closely, the quiet smacks of their lips moving filling the silence in the room.

It was almost frighteningly easy to fall into a rhythm together, their bodies aligning and pressing against each other. Ilya slid his hand from Hollander's jaw to the back of his neck, letting his fingers work themselves into the long hairs at his nape. It made Hollander hum softly. Ilya took the chance to run his tongue along the seam of his lips, and he was let in easily and readily.

Tasting the inside of Hollander's mouth felt a bit like a revelation, and it made heat prickle all over Ilya's skin. Hollander's hands were on his skin now, pushing up under his t-shirt to map and grope at Ilya's solid torso, leaving trails of fire. It made Ilya moan softly into his hot mouth and press his entire body hard against Hollander's, catching him against the closed door.

Delirious, Ilya let his own hands run over Hollander, only pausing briefly in places before moving on, wanting to touch, grab, and feel every part of him. They were pressed together from thighs to chest, and it felt burning hot everywhere they met. Both of them were also almost embarrassingly hard in their sweatpants already and Ilya moved the hand not tangled in Hollander's hair down to finally grab the ample ass cheek and press their groins together.

The grind made Hollander break the kiss with a gasp and moan loudly as he tilted his head back. His lips were pink and shining with their shared spit, eyes screwed shut from the pleasure.

Ilya dove right in to lick and bite along the column of his neck as it was revealed, breathing a soft shhh into the skin there. "Be quiet, Hollander. Unless you want entire team to hear," he murmured between open-mouthed kisses, then used his hold on Hollander to grind them together again.

One of his hands flew to his face, covering his mouth as a high-pitched mmmh vibrated in Hollander's neck. The other hand shoved his fingers into Ilya's still damp curls and grabbed tightly, using the grip to steer his head back to meet in a bruising, consuming clash of lips. At the pull on his hair, it was Ilya who moaned too loudly.

Everything felt like it was burning, bodies pressed together, tongue licking deep into the other's mouth. It was a tidal wave of heat, moving in sync with the smooth grind of their hips together, their cocks aligned and rock hard beside each other. Hollander was breathing hard into their kiss between slides of lips and tongue, one hand in Ilya's hair and another once again roaming underneath his shirt, groping at Ilya's pecs. Ilya moved his other hand down to grab at Hollanders thigh, lifting it to wrap around his hip. The muscled leg felt enormous in Ilya's fairly huge hand, a sensation that would have made him go crazy if he wasn't already blasted completely out of his mind with lust from the way the adjusted position slotted their hips and dicks together. He could come just like this, he realised deliriously as he ground forward, pushing Hollander further into the door. He met the movement with another whine against Ilya's lips, breathing hitching in soft ah ah's with the next.

Again using the tight grip on Ilya's curls, Hollander suddenly pulled him back and away, pushing against his chest as well to create a bit of distance. "No," he said, voice rougher than ever, "Don't wanna come like this."

Ilya's stomach dropped, but just as quickly shot to his throat as Hollander dropped unceremoniously to his knees. God, how was this real? How was this beautiful man in front of Ilya real, pulling his sweats and boxer briefs down in one aggressive movement, leaving them caught around his thighs as Hollander moaned and the sight of Ilya's cock bobbing free, head flushed from their intense arousal. Ilya leaned with one hand against the door and slid the other back into the hair on the back of Hollander's head.

Ilya had received a fair amount of blowjobs in his life, from women and men. He wasn't sure if his own deep fascination with the man made it appear so, but he would swear that he'd never seen anyone look as focused and slightly cock-drunk at the thought of putting their mouth on Ilya's cock. Ilya involuntarily gasped out as the hot, wet heat of Hollander's mouth engulfed him and the eyes of the man below him seemed to unfocus slightly as he moaned around the cock in his mouth, one hand shoving up underneath Ilya's shirt again, the other grabbing the back of his thigh right where the waistband of his pants were stretched across his legs. It was all-consuming, the feeling and sight of Hollander's mouth on him, as he used the grip on his thigh to pull Ilya into a soft thrusting rhythm, which pulled a deep groan from Ilya, carding his fingers through Hollander's hair.

Lips now free, Ilya could not stop the words dripping from his mouth, praises in a mix of English and Russian, so good, keep going, you take me so well, you fucking love this, without even being aware of what was said in which language. He had no brain capacity free whatsoever to do anything by feel the hot hands on his body and the wonderful slide of Hollander's tongue on the underside of his cock. It pressed exactly in the right spots every time, and while it was no where near actual face-fucking—Hollander was still controlling the movements, sliding his mouth up and down Ilya with increasingly garbled moans—the onslaught of sensation along with the movements of his hips brought him right to the edge embarrassingly quickly. He knew Hollander could feel his cock stiffening even further, because he moaned louder and sucked deeper, swallowing around what he could fit in his mouth, and Ilya's praise turned disjointed.

"I am close," he gasped at the next soft thrust and felt nails digging into the back of his thigh, "Going to come right down your beautiful throat. Do you want it?"

Hollander's response was another garbled moan, mouth full as his body suddenly tensed and jerked in place and took Ilya just a bit deeper with the next movement. Ilya gaped down at the man as he whined out, low and prolonged, before his shoulders relaxed and dropped.

"Did you just…?" Ilya started to ask as Hollander's eyes moved up to meet Ilya's, wet and swimming with his orgasm, before he pulled Ilya forward again, feeding his cock in between the shining pink lips again, "Oh fuck, fuck!"

Ilya came so hard the freckles on the face below him turned into bright, blinking stars, a wave of heat rolling through his body. It felt like he fucking ascended for a second, soul sucked out through his dick by the man who'd just come untouched himself from just sucking Ilya's dick. When he became fully aware again, breath coming harder than after their overtime win to reach the Cup finals, Hollander had pulled back, releasing his slowly softening cock from the heaven of his mouth to sit back as he wiped across his red, abused lips with the back of a hand. Hollander was breathing just as hard, face slack and beautifully flushed with the glow only a great orgasm could bring.

"You are a fucking miracle," Ilya breathed, then bodily grabbed and pulled Hollander up to his feet despite his weak protests, before shoving a hand down the front of Hollander's sweats. He jerked hard with a grunt as Ilya ran his fingers through the mess and over his over-sensitive cock.

"What the fuck?" Hollander groaned out, voice hoarse, but froze completely as Ilya pulled his hand free to stick two come-covered fingers into his own mouth. Close as they were, Ilya could see his pupils blooming out once again as Ilya hummed at the taste. He'd barely gotten his fingers cleaned off before Hollander forcibly pulled them from his mouth and crashed their lips together in another deep and bruising kiss.

Chapter 4: embers

Chapter Notes

Hello and welcome to another installment of Ilya Rozanov, Yearnmaxxer 3000.

Thank you for all the comments, watching them tick in is such a treat. I don't reply to many because I get easily overwhelmed, but know that I appreciate and love each and every one of you!!

Ilya Rozanov had never really been the sort of man to make plans. The last time he'd tried, written down steps and ideas, followed it as diligently as he could at his young age, the plan had been Make mama happy again. When that failed, he stopped making plans and started taking one day at a time, for better and for worse.

Watching him skate had always brought mama some joy, so he kept playing hockey, which was also a great outlet for his volatile feelings. When he got the opportunity to join the Junior leagues in Russia and internationally, he went, if nothing else just to get away a bit. He didn't plan to work hard and try to reach the MHL draft, but when it happened, he went anyway, the only plan being to earn money and fuck around, both of which he'd done in droves since. The only thing he truly planned was to win the next game, shortsighted as it was.

So, it was really no wonder that Ilya had absolutely no plan beside getting a taste of Shane Hollander's soft mouth, to hear his pleasured sounds, and feel his desire-heated skin. He in no way whatsoever gave a thought to the after, how they'd act around each other, how it might influence their professional relationship as coach and player. Ilya was technically Hollander's subordinate in a strange sense, and if discovered, it would no doubt be an absolute HR nightmare. It was a thought that had risen in his brain once, and then instantly left again at the sight of the deep brown eyes sharply focused on the training players, an intensity that intrigued Ilya like nothing else.

Mainly, he thought very optimistically it would have been a question of getting it out of his system, to find the answer to the questions he had about Hollander; How his hands gripped and eyes clouded over with pleasure. Then it would be done, he would enjoy it greatly, Hollander would most likely be awkward for a while and then everything would normalise and they'd all get on with their lives and win some Cups. A fine, fun plan.

Yeah, Ilya was never good at making plans.

It took only five days before Ilya had Hollander cornered in a supply closet at the rink and made him come so hard down Ilya's throat that it took a good fifteen minutes before the coach rejoined the tape watching session, murmuring some excuse about an important phone call. Hollander had been impressively normal around Ilya until then, but his eyes sometimes felt like a physical touch to Ilya's neck, eyes large and dark. Hollander clearly wasn't done with Ilya, so why not, when the hunger that raged through Ilya clearly echoed in the other man?

Shane Hollander had always lived his life according to meticulous plans, first made by his mother, then himself (though often with his mother on the sideline). The great plan for his life had always been to become the best, and when hockey showed itself not to be his space, he poured everything into the heavier skates of a figure skater. His growth spurt in his late teens had again derailed his plans, but his mother took it swinging and found him a wonderful partner, where his size and strength would be a necessary asset. He followed the diet and training plans that kept his body in medal contention, yet not too big for the jumps, and he flourished in the routine, with the solid weight of winning.

When his life was once again derailed in a doctor's office, this time not because of measurements, but instead papers detailing viral loads, his mother again took charge at setup a new plan. Not much different than before, but accommodating for new routines of checks and medicine. It did not take long for the new routine to feel like home, and over time, he adjusted and once again flourished.

They won. They qualified. They took silver. They won some more. They qualified once again, and this time, they won the gold.

Both Shane and his lovely partner and close friend, Rose, knew how the system worked in pair skating. If it was pure skill, they probably would have taken gold both times, but the judges awarded more than skill. Tenure was sometimes as much of a factor in the scoring as turns and jumps, and so they took silver the first time to make space for another couple who'd been close many times and would most likely age out of their top shape by the next Olympics. Similarly, both Shane and Rose, who was two years older than her partner, knew that they most likely would not be able to keep their form for another run in 2022; Skating was a young sport, and they were caught in just the awkward age in between that made it difficult to get to three Olympics. Shane would have been able to if Rose had been just a bit younger, but the thought of finding the rhythm and closeness with a new partner made the back of his neck itch. So when they won, they decided to retire as a couple. Still young, Rose pursued a career as a model and an actress, which was already growing steadily. She was a born performer, much more than Shane would ever be. He had only ever really felt at home on the ice.

This time, Shane formulated the plan himself. He had to stay on the ice, and the job market for retired skaters were fairly small, so when his few contacts within the MHL spoke of an opportunity in Boston, it had taken very little thought to seek out. Hockey had still been his primary hobby over the years and he'd grown friendly with several players when training in Montreal, something his die-hard Metros fan mother had been very happy about.

His parents knew why he had steered away from hockey and the locker rooms, but they had been happy that he'd still been able to partake in a way, at least in heated technical debates with his mother. His mother also stubbornly insisted that his hockey past time helped his power immensely for the skating. His friends on the Montreal team had been jokingly horrified at the news, but happy that his plan worked out, and they promised to catch up when they had the opportunity around games.

Shane Hollander had not planned for Ilya Rozanov.

Of course he knew of Rozanov. His mother had always joked that Rozanov only took number 1 draft pick because Shane hadn't gone into hockey, because her son clearly would have been number 1, and they would have been in the same draft class. Instead Rozanov dominated the ice as a generational talent and the tabloids as a party monger and charmer without limits. Although Shane felt kinship with Montreal both because of his mother and his friends on the team, he secretly followed Rozanov and hoped for his wins whenever he had the chance to catch a game. He liked great hockey and no one played as great hockey as Rozanov.

The man was mesmerising on the ice, brutal and aggressive, but also moving with a sharp precision Shane recognised; Rozanov had at least at some point trained with professional figure skaters and it gave him an edge in control and speed over any other players in the league. It also didn't help that he was devastatingly handsome and routinely did sponsor photo shoots more or less dressed, but nothing could truly prepare anyone for being faced with him directly.

Not that Shane was unfamiliar with want, since the youthful, clumsy sort had landed him with a life-altering diagnosis, but it was nothing like the visceral need the sight of Rozanov crooked smirk brought shooting through his body. Shane had stayed mostly away from men over the years, nothing more than a few nervous hook-ups to boast of, and he'd never really felt like he was missing out on much.

It'd felt almost like a mental blackout, like he wasn't even aware of his own decision to call Rozanov's name to get him into his office. There was no plan, no actual thought behind it except that physical need thrumming in his bones, and it was only after Roz had left the office with a deep and long parting make-out (because that's the only thing it could be classified as, the lazy swapping of spit, soft around the edges, caressing hands softer than expected, so soft) and a playful wink from his warm, hooded eyes that Shane realised what had happened. His own come was cooling in his pants, the uncomfortable sensation kick-starting the panic attack that followed the realisation of what the fuck he had done.

And then it happened again.

Rozanov hadn't even come himself, just sucking Shane's entire soul out through his dick with the comment that he had to be rewarded for being such a good boy, which had—humiliatingly—set Shane right off. The need wiped his head clean of anything else than Rozanov's sinful mouth and strong hands. Afterwards, when they'd finished the tape session and he returned home, he had let himself panic a bit again over just how easy it was for him to disappear into that need, which was in no way part of any plan he'd ever made.

So the plan should be adjusted—it had happened, but that was it. It was a ridiculous thing, to hook up with the captain of the hockey team he now coached, and it had to stop.

Hollander didn't always join them on away games, but for this one, an early October game against the New York Admirals, he was standing tall in a tasteful pinstripe check suit behind the bench beside Le Claire, stance wide and hands clasped at the small of his back like he was in a military lineup. His dark eyes were skittering all over the ice as the game unfolded, Boston managing to keep the puck in possession but having a hard time actually getting good shots on the goal. Ilya was frustrated, both by the Admirals' defense, but also from just how well-tailored the suit was. The large check pattern of thin lines did a blessed good job of highlighting just how shapely Hollander was, wrapping around his ass and thighs like that.

Every now and then, Hollander tapped a player on the shoulder as they were sat on the bench waiting for their next shift, giving a word or two, maybe a gesture towards the play as he spoke. Whenever he had the chance, Ilya took very careful notice of how each of his team members took in the feedback.

He knew that a few still disregarded their new coach due to prejudices, and Ilya could only intimidate and try to reason with the guys so many times. The asshole Temlett in particular was riding on Ilya's last nerve when he once again caught him rolling his eyes when Hollander gave a comment to Trips, who was clearly unnerved to play against the Admirals, who'd won the cup just one year before and reached the conference finals that spring.

The next time Ilya lined up for face-off against Hunter, he grinned. Hunter was sweating, but his eyes shone with energy and was already squinting in distaste from the expectancy of a chirp.

"Must be strange every new season, yes? To see friends of your grand-kids take to the ice?" Ilya panted. Hunter barely managed a scowl and grunt before the puck dropped between them and the clash of their sticks made any response impossible. As fun as it was to rib Hunter about his age, he had only been drafted three years before Ilya, just four years older when it came to it.

"I think it's kind of nice you'll finally get to play someone your own age, rook," Hunter panted out the next time they clashed, which only made Ilya laugh happily. It felt more like an inside joke than chirping at this point, even more so now that Ilya had spent this last season after Hunter's great gay kiss at his Cup win actively supporting Hunter when he could. Without the direct pressure of his father and homeland, he'd already made peace with the fact that he would prefer to never return and being outspoken in support of the first out queer captain just made a great excuse, if Ilya was being entirely honest to himself.

After they'd managed to squeak out a 2-1 win over the Admirals, Ilya shared a look and a nod in the locker room with Marlow, who bumped St. Simone and Connors.

"See if we can get Hollander to join," St. Simone said to Connors, "I feel like it might just be his kind of place."

Ilya wasn't entirely sure how they managed to convince Hollander to join them, but he wouldn't be the one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The five of them wandered the New York streets, chatting idly about the game. It was mostly Hollander giving scathing critique to the third line of the Admirals, who'd clearly been testing out the sticks of some new prospect who wasn't ready. He'd lost the puck more times that they could count and was probably directly responsible for the Raiders' first goal.

The bar wasn't a long way from the hotel where they'd freshened up and redressed—at least the players had, Hollander was still wearing the diabolical suit pants, although the crisp white shirt had the first few buttons unbuttoned and the sharp suit jacket was hanging in the hotel in favour of a maroon bomber jacket. It was entirely intentional that Ilya was walking behind the coach who was gesturing at Marlow and Connors, both listening with rapt attention.

The familiar interior of the Kingfisher felt more welcoming than it probably was to a bunch of Raiders straight off a win, but Ilya strode right in, nodded at the lanky barkeeper, who simply rolled his eyes and cocked his head towards their regular table at the back. Three large men were already seated around two small tables, fresh, cold beers at their hands, but they stood to greet the Boston players as they approached.

"First round on the winners, yes?" Ilya grinned, catching Scott Hunter's hand in a clap and slapped a hand on his shoulder in a hug. The losing team captain took the weak chirp with a wry smile that grew genuine as they all shared the casual welcome, until Hunter reached Hollander.

"This is our new skating coach—"Ilya started, but Carter Vaughn piped up from where he'd settled at the table again.

"Shane Hollander! How did the Raiders manage to catch an Olympic gold medalist?"

Hollander gaped a bit as a blush rose on his cheekbones.

"That's where I'd seen him before," Hunter answered and snapped his fingers at Hollander, "We have a tradition for watching the figure skating between training at the Olympics, so we caught some of your stuff."

"Oh wow. Well, thank you," Hollander said, shaking their hands like the good boy he was. "I'm not used to getting recognised, and not by some of the best hockey players in the league."

Both Ilya and Connors groaned at the same time as the last Admiral, Matti Jalo laughed along with the rest of them.

"No loyalty, Hollander," Marly admonished, to which the man in question just laughed.

"You forget I grew up a Metros fan, I still send my mom apology flowers every other week."

Both tables roared with laughter as the lanky barkeep delivered another round of beers, which Ilya noted with interest that Hollander did take a sip from. The hand not wrapped around the cool glass was splayed out on his thigh in a way that seemed just a bit off from relaxed.

Ah. So he was nervous. About the hockey celebrities?

"So you grew up around hockey?" Vaughn asked curiously, face open and friendly as ever.

"I am Canadian," Hollander answered simply as if it answered everything, and it did, because all the Admirals just nodded. "I played a lot of hockey as a kid. I actually would have been in Roz' draft year if I'd gone for that instead of skating."

"Saved yourself some trouble, right? Roz is a menace and took all the attention for a long time." Jalo's soft accent was musical and clipped, but Ilya recognised the small upturn in his lips as the smile it was supposed to be. Most Finnish men were a lot like Russians when it came to showing emotion, and Jalo was exemplary, much more so than Ilya.

"You say that, Jalo, but you haven't seen 'Ollander play hockey," St. Simone warned, which made Hollander look down at his drink in embarrassment as he took another sip. "Of course he'd got the skating down to perfection, but he's more accurate with the puck than most of you anyway."

Hunter's eyebrows went up. "Shit man, seriously?"

Hollander shrugged, but didn't manage to make it look at all nonchalant. "Skating was technically my backup plan."

"Are you serious?" Vaughn screeched loudly, which only served to make the others laugh again. "Olympic gold medal as a backup plan?"

"Olympic gold medal in hockey was the plan, I just shifted some things around. I, erm…" Hollander started, then paused as he looked down for a beat, then back up to meet Hunter's eyes. "I probably would have stuck with hockey if I'd had someone like you to look up to."

The words sank in along with his gesture towards one of the pictures nearby, of Hunter on the top of a bus during the Stanley Cup celebrations, pride flag wrapped around his shoulders. Ilya knew the Admirals would be fine, but he did keep an eye on his own players. They most likely kind of knew already, as it seemed to be a kind of a not-secret secret among the crew, but it was something else to hear it being admitted to directly.

The thoughtful hum that followed was broken by Marlow.

"That's one of the reasons I'm glad I got a sister. She's dated like, three other players in the women's league, it's no big deal there."

Connors sputtered out a laugh, echoed my Jalo. "I don't think that's how it works, Marly."

The laughter spread, easing the heaviness in the air.

"I mean, my true goal as a kid was at least one Olympic gold medal and my name on the Stanley Cup, which is still entirely possible now, so," Hollander said, letting a smile show on his face. It made his freckles stand out on his cheeks, and Ilya noticed the tense hand on his thigh relax a bit.

"Only more impressive when two different sports," Ilya said, leaning over to knock his shoulder against Hollander's, making him turn to look at him. Hollander's smile widened.

"If you say so, Roz."

Ilya chose not to react to the pointed stare from Scott Hunter.

They did only really have one beer before calling it a night. It ended up mostly being the Admirals grilling Hollander on skating and the differences between his two disciplines, or all of them gossiping about other players, off-season trades and their outcomes, new rookies, and everything on the ice. They teetered along the line of sharing too much info, but at this point, now over a year into this tradition, their trust for one another across the teams went deeper than Ilya would ever had imagined he'd get.

They were true friends who just enjoyed spending time together. At a gay hockey bar.

"I don't know what I expected when Connors forced me to join you out, but it wasn't this," Hollander admitted to Ilya on their way back to the hotel. This time, they were walking beside each other, because apparently Ilya had no self control after sitting beside the man for an hour, wanting nothing but to grab at the hand he'd kept on his thigh for the most of the time there.

"I think maybe you expected louder music and more women?" Ilya asked with a grin, which Hollander answered with his own. The alcohol had left a rose tint across his face and Ilya honestly felt like he would be able to write poems about what it did to his freckles.

Ridiculous.

"Yeah, not far off. I really enjoyed it though."

"Hunter is not so bad," Ilya admitted, "We started the tradition last year, first just to show support, but we had fun. They also go with us to a bar when we play in Boston. Boston is a very gay city, we have a lot to choose from."

Hollander's smile turned soft as Ilya explained. "Count me in the next time."

"Good, you can pay when we win again then."

His laugh was even softer, tired this time.

Connors was on the level below them in the hotel, but St. Simone and Marlow rode with Shane and Ilya up to the next floor.

"Why do I always get the room furthest from the elevator," Ilya grumbled, "I am hockey player after game, I should be able to rest."

"It's technically a symbol of importance," Hollander remarked as they nodded farewell to St. Simone, "The further away from the elevator or stairs, the quieter the room will be, the better rested you'll be."

Marlow stopped outside his room and stared at him. "Really? I mean, the rooks always get the rooms next to the elevator, but really?"

"Of course it is, Marly," Ilya instantly replied, his tone mockingly prim, "The rooks sleep through everything anyway. But I am still—" he paused to look down the corridor "—four doors more important than you."

Marlow guffawed and slapped Ilya's shoulder before disappearing into his room without further comment.

"I'm still two rooms down from you," Hollander teased as they went further down the stretch.

"But you have roommate to be silent for, yes?" Ilya asked, voice turning soft a bit against his will. Hollander sighed.

"Yeah, I'll take care not to wake Marc. We usually go to sleep pretty early, but I did warn him that I was going out with you guys, so I don't even know when he'd expect me back."

Ilya hummed and slowed down as they reached his door. "But he expects you back tonight?"

Hollander paused as well and Ilya felt a thrill to watch the deep brown eyes shift down to catch on his lips.

"I mean, probably. I'm not known for staying out." His voice softened to a murmur as he almost instinctively leaned towards Ilya, who hummed again.

"Great perk of being captain is no roommate."

Hollander's eyes flicked up, tongue briefly peeking out to wet his lips before he smiled. "Lucky you."

This time, Ilya circled the other man as he hummed, making them turn so that Hollander's back was almost touching the door, Ilya in front of him and the door. Hollander's chest was moving with his heavier breath already as his eyes zeroed in on Ilya's lips again. It was absolutely intoxicating to see how he was able to affect the coach with just a bit of flirting.

"Want to stay in?" Ilya asked in a voice that was barely more than a breath, stepping forward to tap the key card on the door handle. They were way too close for this public hallway, especially with Ilya's arm halfway around Hollander to open the door. Ilya felt reckless, maybe a bit caught up in the atmosphere of the night, but he couldn't find it in himself to care right now. What he cared about was getting Shane Hollander underneath him, or maybe around him.

It was so strong, the need, that when Hollander smiled crookedly and pushed the doorknob to open the door, stepping back into Ilya's room with a hand curled into the front of Ilya's shirt to drag him with him, it felt like a tsunami crashing over him, momentarily drowning him completely.

Fuck everything else. Shane Hollander wanted his name on the Cup? Ilya would give him three. Five. All of them, every single year from now until his knees fell off. Shane deserved all of them.

Maybe a year or two before then, Ilya thought then, his still strong knees hitting the floor. They were useful for other things.

Chapter End Notes

Did I want to write a whole hotel room smut scene? Yes. Did I need to cut the chapter before it got out of hand? Also yes.

I promise there'll be smut later. I'm really testing my own limits and forcing myself to stay on plan!

HAPPY PRIDE MONTH EVERYONE!!