Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Character:

et al.

Additional Tags:

Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Player Shane Hollander, Ilya played for the KHL, First Round Draft Pick Shane, Ilya gets to Boston, Miscommunication, Happy Ending, Smut around and find out, Ilya is down bad for Shane, Fade to black hockey, We begin in Sochi, No Beta, AU obviously, 1 percent canon compliance probably

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-23 Updated: 2026-03-26 Words: 16,344 Chapters: 5/?

bone marrow

Summary

He wanted to fly with him and weave a new layer of legacy, wanted to bury his greatness in Boston’s bones like marrow.

—> Ilya is signed to the KHL to pay off his father’s debts and Shane goes first round to Boston. After Sochi, Ilya leaves Russia for Boston.

Chapter 1

✶✶✶

“Ilya... Ilya Rozanov?”

Ilya half turned away from his teammate and let his eyes rest on the boy in white fleece with a red maple leaf. He’d recognized him from a different life, in a different country. “Yes.” He said, his mouth curling over the English like a forgotten toy. 

“I’m, uh, I’m Shane Hollander. Um, we met once. Before. In, uh, Regina. World Juniors? I don’t know if you…”

Ilya watched as a flush rushed over his cheeks, already bitten by the snow. “I beat you.” He said, his mouth ticking up in a smirk that didn’t feel cruel. “You tell me not to smoke.”

Shane let out an uncomfortable laugh, his fingers rushing up to his scalp to itch away his awkwardness. “Yeah. Sorry. No, I’m not, actually. You shouldn’t smoke.” He groaned a little, his eyes closing tightly as he took a deep breath to recenter himself. “I just wanted to say I was bummed when you signed, uh,” he looked to the other Russian behind Ilya, Ivan Pushkin, and stumbled over his words, “um, not with the, uh, the NHL. I mean, good that you went to, um, Ak Bars.” 

Ilya felt the vibrations of Pushkin’s laugh against the wall they were leaning against. “Da.” He agreed tightly. “It was good. You sign with Boston, yes?”

“Ah, yeah. I did. Thought I’d go Montreal but Boston had first round pick, and, well, I like it. It’s great, honestly.”

Ilya had known that Hollander had been the number one draft pick. With him out of contention as a NHL prospect for that season, there was no other choice. He felt a slight pang that he hadn’t been drafted by Boston but thought that might be because he hadn’t been drafted at all. 

“Boston is good, then?”

“Yeah. Really good. I’m Captain, now.”

Ilya nodded, the jealousy curling in his stomach like food poisoning. He acknowledged the tap Pushkin’s hand against his arm with a short nod. “Ah, well. See you in final, yes?”

“Yeah. Definitely. It was, uh, good to see you. Again. Good luck.” Hollander said, his hand extended forward like a mirror of five years earlier. 

Ilya’s tongue pressed against the back of his teeth as he dropped his eyes from Hollander’s to his outstretched hand and back. He curled his fingers around Hollander’s and swiped his thumb over the back of his knuckles, enjoying the flush that intensified on Hollander’s cheeks. “Will beat you again, da? For memory?”

Shane’s hand stilled inside of Ilya’s grip. “Not a chance.” He denied before realizing that the handshake had gone on too long and abruptly pulled his hand out of Ilya’s grip. 

Ilya shrugged, his mouth turning down in an amused half smile, his head rocking back and forth on his shoulders. “We will see.” 

Hollander hesitated for a moment, shoving his hands into his pocket, and gave a short nod. “See you.” He said finally, turning and heading back towards a sea of white fleece. 

“Weird guy.” Pushkin said as he pushed away from the wall. 

Ilya’s cheeks twinged a little from the smile he tried to bury. “Canadians.” He offered with a shrug. 

✶✶✶

Ilya didn’t see Hollander in the finals, didn’t even meet him again at any point during the round robin, because Russia had lost spectacularly to Latvia the next day. Which was, to Ilya’s absolute horror, unavoidable. 

The Russian team didn’t mesh. Too much ego between the players from the NHL and general disdain and lack of willingness to collaborate from the KHL players. Ilya was ashamed to have failed so publicly on such a large stage. Being Team Russia’s captain had been an honor when they had all of the ice laid clean and bare in front of them, but now that the ice was scraped and chipped, and it was one of his greatest shames. 

He wished his father hadn’t traveled from Moscow. He was glad his brother hadn’t cared enough to come. 

He stood between his father and the Minister, his hand clutching his glass so tightly that he was sure it’d crumble into shards and embed fragments of glass into his palm. He stared forward, focused on the cloudy glass of a mirror that was probably centuries old, the furrow of his brow distorted in the reflection. 

He wondered, idly, distantly, through a smog, what Shane Hollander was doing to prepare for his next game. Wondered if he was flipping through game tapes of various Swedish players to pinpoint their weaknesses. 

He wondered why he even cared. 

Russia was out and Ilya had only shared two short, stunted conversations with the Canadian. 

He’d put Hollander out of his mind almost the moment after he’d returned to Russia in 2009. He’d thought he’d see Hollander again that summer, was eager to gloat over the fact he was drafted first—because it was a given. Ilya had been first in hockey his entire life and he’d accept no less than that professionally. 

“Ilya…”

He circled back to himself at the sound of his name but quickly vanished into the recesses of his mind when it became clear that he wasn’t a participant in the conversation but just the subject being spoken of, like he wasn’t there to hear it. His mouth turned into a flat line, a whisper of a grimace that could be read as a smile if no one was looking too closely. 

His eyes dropped to his glass of vodka, little ripples from his hand shaking the glass slightly sloshing against the crystal. His eyes turned the liquid to ice in his mind and he fell back into 2009 and wondered what it would have been like to close his hands around his escape from Russia. He’d been so close, freedom whispering against his finger tips until the shackles of the KHL were snapped around his wrists, anchoring him to his motherland for another three years. 

His father was heavily decorated but also rapidly deteriorating. He’d made bad deals and calls, had made enemies where he should have kept strangers and Ilya and his hockey was the only ticket out for Grigori. He’d been signed into a deal while he was over twenty thousand feet in the air somewhere over the arctic. He’d been a minor, even so, the legalities of contracts when the invisible ink was littered with repayments and retribution from the Russian underworld were secondary. 

Ilya would stay in Russia and he would play hockey and pay his father’s debts. 

“Too much hockey talk, papa.” Svetlana crooned, sliding between her father and Ilya, kissing the former on the cheek. “I’m here to steal Ilya.”

“You love hockey talk.” Her father chuckled and Ilya’s father took a beat too long to offer forward his own small laugh. 

“Da, when we win. But, here we are…”

Ilya let himself be guided away from his father and the Minister, idly listening to them talk in hushed whispers. Ilya knew there were plans under the surface like a deadly current, could feel the way it was only a matter of time until he was told that he’d wasted enough of his youth and he and Svetlana stood under an altar swearing fidelity and loyalty to each other. 

It could be worse, Ilya thought, the hand that wasn’t holding the crystal snifter encased in Svetlana’s as she pulled him through the party, at least she had an American passport. 

He was unsurprised to be led into one of the palatial bathrooms that littered the embassy. He was, however, surprised to see Sasha reclining in the tub, a bottle of vodka resting on the surround and a silver plate with a baggy of coke in his hands. 

“Sasha.” Ilya greeted, an eyebrow quirked at Svetlana before he snatched the vodka bottle from the tub and moved across the room to one of the sinks and rested against the cabinet. 

“You played well.” Sasha said in lieu of greeting as he pushed a little pile of coke into a line. 

“I know you didn’t watch.” Ilya said through a scoff as he uncapped the vodka and ignored the glass he’d discarded, pressing the bottle straight to his mouth. 

“No.” Sasha agreed, ducking his head to the tray. 

Ilya watched with disdain before his eyes moving across the room to Svetlana, who’d gracefully hoisted herself up onto the countertop, her feet swinging like a girl much younger than she was. A thousand conversations happened through space between them, accented with sounds of Sasha snorting what was probably a week’s worth of pay in one go. 

“I think The States will win.” Svetlana said, leaning back onto her hands. 

“Oh?” Ilya hummed, another swig of vodka flooding his mouth. “Why is that?”

She shrugged slightly, tilting her head and letting her ear rest against her bare shoulder. “Hunter is hungry for it.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Mm. No. Russia was no good. Too much ego, too much pressure on home ice. A hurt goalie can only get you so far. Latvia—“ she scoffed, “will lose to America. Sweden to Canada and then Canada will crumble under Scott Hunter’s leadership. Canada’s team can only go so far, even with Shane Hollander.” 

Ilya’s throat bobbed as Hollander’s pink cheeks and pretty freckles flashed through his mind. Too dangerous a thought to have. “Hollander?”

“I think he will win the Cup this year. Losing gold will make him work much harder for it.”

“Hm.” Ilya hummed, tossing the idea around his mind. “Boston will win, you think?”

“Yes.” She said brightly, her eyes flashing away from Ilya and to Sasha in the tub, his head resting against the porcelain. “Their left winger is retiring this year…”

“How do you know this?”

“She’s psychic.” Sasha supplied, dazedly, dreamily, highly. 

“I pay attention. He has been favoring his right shoulder all season, and he took a bad hit last month. His knee.”

“Murphy, yes?” Ilya asked even though he was well versed on Boston’s roster. 

His one year extension he’d been forced, or resigned to, last year flipped pages through his mind. April. Two months and he’d be presented with another extension he’d be expected to sign even though his father’s debt had long been paid off. 

Svetlana watched his face as he disappeared into his thoughts and he was thankful she didn’t disrupt him, choosing instead to sit in the silence. 

Ilya had been a center his entire life, but he was flexible. He wasn’t immovable and his ego had checks and balances, and Hollander… Hollander was a magnificent center. Sleek, fast, calculated and fluent in the language of ice. His linemates were woven around him like silk tapestry. It was beautiful to watch. 

Ilya could play wing. He didn’t need to be the focus. 

He could find an American agent. He could put feelers out. He could… escape KHL and the claws of Russia that had left deep gashes on his soul. 

✶✶✶

Svetlana had forwarded the contact information for an agent out of Boston to a burner Ilya always kept off, under lock and key in a cupboard in a spare room that he never went into unless it was to retrieve it. 

It’d always felt a little silly to him. Paranoia laced with mother Russia’s toxic love and possessiveness over her assets. He knew he lived in a surveillance state, knew that anything his name was openly attached to was monitored and watched.

A burner was the safest option. Picked up while visiting Svetlana in the States and only programmed with her number. 

He’d sat on the floor in the spare room, the light off, and scrolled through the information she’d sent to him for hours. He weighed his options, warring with the fallout that was sure to come from not only his father, but his coaches, the fans. Probably even the men that had forced his father’s hand into signing him onto the Ak Bars roster. 

He wasn’t stupid, his ego wasn’t self inflated. He knew that plenty of KHL players left the league and moved to North America the second their contract was up. He was never supposed to play for the KHL in the first place, but now he felt tethered to it in a way he didn’t like. He wondered if half of his guilt was knowing he was abandoning his father to his brother’s poor caretaking if he chose to go. 

He also wasn’t sure how long he had until he was paying off his brother’s debts instead of funneling money into his bank account to pay for his drug addiction. 

✶✶✶

Cillian Lennon stood almost a good foot shorter than Ilya. He was all red hair and pale skin and splotchy freckles that looked more like he’d spent his days rolling in dirt than in boardrooms and lunches. His suit was expensive, if a little ill fitting, and his briefcase was worn on the corners. 

“Mr. Rozanov, nice to meet you.” He’d greeted as Ilya stepped into the hotel conference room he had booked. His hand shake was firm, steadying. “Please sit.”

“Hi.” He said, smoothing the fabric of his dress slacks over his thighs as he took a seat across the table. “Thank you for meeting me.” He said slowly, his English curling over his tongue in a boxy way. 

Lennon’s briefcase unclasped with a practiced click. “Of course. I have some papers that I need your signature on. Finalizing our working agreement for me to officially represent you in North America. Then we can get into what you’re looking for.”

Ilya accepted the pen and the papers and hurriedly signed his name where clear sticky tabs with a red arrow were placed. “I will… appreciate the, uh, quiet, yes?”

“Discretion.” He supplied as he pulled the freshly signed papers back across the desk and flipping through them idly. When he was satisfied, he straightened them like he was going to shuffle a deck of cards before placing them neatly in a folder to the side. “You became unrestricted last year, when you turned twenty two, per standard KHL contracts.” 

Ilya nodded. “Yes. I signed one year contract extension.”

Lennon hummed, his fingers now rifling through the outline of Ilya’s current contract. He wondered who Cillian Lennon had on his payroll to translate Cryllic and if their discretion was guaranteed. 

“And you prefer the idea of the Eastern Conference? Western is out of the question?”

“I, ah, have friend. Here. In Boston. I would like to, ah, be close?” Ilya’s eyes moved away from Lennon to the bank of windows behind him. The sun was rising and glittering off the city skyline. “She is…”

“The problem, here, Mr. Rozanov, is that the Bears aren’t looking for a center.” He said, leaning back in his chair, resting his hands over his stomach as he watched Ilya watch the window. “They’re in the market for a defenseman, and while I appreciate the sheer force and volatility you have on the ice, that’s not exactly what’s needed. Montreal, on the other hand, their rebuild hit a snag and they are looking for a star center.”

Ilya’s nose scrunched and he idly scratched at it as his eyes moved away from the windows and back to his new American agent. “I am hearing that a winger will retire after season.” 

Cillian’s eyebrows flew up in surprise and he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the conference table, his fingers steepling together. He catalogued Ilya’s expression over his finger tips, silence filling the room like fog for a long, uncomfortable moment. “I haven’t heard anything like that.”

Ilya shrugged his shoulders, his mouth turning into a sheepish line. “Boston is first choice.”

“Hollander isn’t going anywhere, Mr. Rozanov. That contract is air tight, no trade. He is the backbone of Boston.” 

“Mm,” Ilya agreed, willing flashes of pretty Shane Hollander to leave his vision for just a moment. “I will play wing. I will play second line. I do not care. I want Boston.” 

Lennon’s breath whistled out of him on a huff of surprise. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“Quiet.”

“Quietly.” He agreed, his fingers scratching at his chin. 

✶✶✶

Ilya’s season, his career, with Ak Bars ended spectacularly awfully. It felt like a repeat of the Olympics just a month later. His agent in Russia had spent almost the entirety of March and the whole month of April reaching out about what he wanted from his contract extension. 

Ilya had hemmed and hawed and told him that he was still thinking about it. 

He needed to wait out the clock until May 1st—something his agent and team management didn’t seem content to let happen. 

Ilya wondered if they knew what his plans were. He thought maybe they’d caught wind of what he was doing when he left Russia to visit Svetlana in Boston, his official reason for visiting the States before the season had officially ended. He knew it wasn’t uncommon for him to visit his oldest friend, that any day now people expected there to be an upcoming announcement of an engagement. 

Svetlana was a good cover story.

Lennon had been a good agent, dutiful and thorough and had sent information to Ilya’s burner phone with encrypted messages. He’d been skeptical when Ilya had mentioned rumors of a winger’s retirement from Boston but had been dumbfounded when it was announced publicly at the start of playoffs. 

It was going to be Devin Murphy’s last season. Retirement was calling and he wanted to answer. 

Ilya knew that his performance at the Olympics and subsequent first round elimination of the Gagarin Cup playoffs didn’t look great as a job performance recommendation. But he also knew that he’d been a top prospect for the NHL years beforehand and hoped that previous tapes and stats would do enough to wipe his slate clean of his recent failures. 

He’d taken to retreating into the small, underused room that was quickly becoming the most visited room in his apartment. He’d pulled a leather chair from his living room and placed it just beside the window and spent many hours sitting in it. 

Turning the burner phone on. Checking for messages. Powering it off. 

Repeating the cycle almost every hour of the waking day. 

He trusted that Cillian would get a deal done—preferably Boston. He would settle for another city if he had to. He knew he’d be making far less than his market value but it was a sacrifice he could make for a few years to get his skates on the roster and his ass in the States. 

Playing wing was a step down from star center but sharing a line with Hollander would make a position change worth everything he would be sacrificing in Russia. 

He wanted to fly with him and weave a new layer of legacy, wanted to bury his greatness in Boston’s bones like marrow. 

He took the second offer Boston gave him. Three years with a minimum base of a million and a half with performance enhancement bonuses. It was nothing to scoff at, was actually a pretty decent deal for a first season in the NHL. Money wasn’t his top priority, had more than enough saved away from his years in the KHL, even considering he was financing his brother’s addiction and father’s medical expenses. 

It was less than his value, but it was his ticket out of Russia and that felt priceless. 

✶✶✶

Ilya had seen NHL games before. Had attended quite a few in TD Garden itself, but the air in the arena the night of the final game had felt electric and terrifying. It made him feel dizzy with excitement. 

He’d passed on sitting in the owner’s suite, choosing to sit with Svetlana in the stands. He’d tugged on his freshly bought jersey from the shop and tugged it over his sweatshirt happily. He didn’t want to wear his own sweater that had been carefully folded in a drawer in Svetlana’s spare bedroom. 

He wondered if choosing Hollander’s meant more than he thought it did in his mind. 

“This will be you next year.” Svetlana said to him, grabbing at his elbow and shaking him. “Boston!”

Ilya grinned, knocking his head against hers lightly. His eyes were glued to the ice, his ice, watching as his new team ran their warmups. He easily found Murphy, sliding into position for puck drop, and sent a silent thank you to whoever battered him just enough to send him into retirement. 

He was eternally grateful. 

Ilya’s eyes left Murphy and fastened themselves onto Hollander. He looked good in Bears black and gold, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes cast down onto the ice. Boston was so close to winning the Cup. 

He was a little jealous that he wasn’t on the ice in Murphy’s place. 

Next year. 

Ilya lost himself in the game the moment the puck dropped. He watched Hollander fly across the ice like he was born for it. Edging and slicing, checked into boards. He bemoaned the first goal going to San Francisco. 

Buzzers. Whistles. The smell of rubber and ice and spilled beer curling around him like a blanket. The cacophony of yelling over missed calls, chanting as players went in and out of the sin bin. Periods played out, screams of celebrations for goals echoing through the arena. 

And then the helmets were being tossed, sticks flying and the Boston Bears were a puddle of men groping and hugging against the boards, Shane Hollander lost under the pile as they celebrated their first Cup win in fucking years. 

“Next year, Sveta!” He yelled, pumping his fist before crooking it around her neck and pulling her into him. “The fucking Cup! I will be down there with them. Next fucking year!”

✶✶✶

Ilya and Svetlana were retrieved from their seats by one of the front office interns and led through the bowels of the arena back towards the locker room. It was raucous and exciting and the energy zipped through his blood like an electrical current. 

The stalls were taped up, wet with champagne spray celebrations. The players had mostly stripped down to base layers, Stanley Cup champions hats pulled over their heads, some with tshirts and hoodies, almost all with tiny bottles of bubbly in their hands. 

This was Ilya’s first time in this locker room and he felt like the energy and adrenaline would feed his soul for the next few months until he could get another hit. 

“No fuckin’ way!” A large defenseman, Marlow, yelled as he spotted Ilya and Svetlana just inside the door. “Fuckin’ wicked you’re here!”

Ilya blanked for a moment before he let a grin explode over his face. “I am, what you say? New good luck charm?”

“Of fuckin’ course he’s got Holz jersey. Unbelievable.” Marlow laughed, clapping his hand over Ilya’s shoulder and pulling him further into the chaos. 

Hollander looked up from his phone, his face a wide smile, his freckles covered in champagne dew drops. “Rozanov!” He shouted, setting his phone onto his shelf. 

“Congratulations on your Cup, Hollander. Is no gold medal…”

“Oh, fuck you. At least I got a medal.” 

Ilya held his hands up, mockingly in defeat. “Is true. Now we will, ah, win together.” 

Hollander nodded, his smile moving into a smirk as his eyes moved to Svetlana behind him. “Hey, I’m Shane.” He said, holding his hand forward. “You must be…”

“Svetlana. I am very happy to meet you, Shane Hollander.” She said, curling her hand around his. 

Ilya watched the tips of Shane’s ears go a little pink as Sveta kept his hand hostage. He looked from her to Ilya and back again.

 “We will not keep you, of course.” Ilya said, pressing his hand against Svetlana’s waist and tucking her back into his side. “Big win to celebrate. Next year will be bigger.” 

“A-fuckin’-men to that, Rozanov.” Marlow shouted even though he was beside them. “You staying in the city this summer?”

“Ah, no. I will go to Russia for month. Then return for season.”

“Hit some of us up when you’re back in town. Most of us live here year round. Best fuckin’ city in this country.”

Ilya nodded. “Yes. I will do this.” He agreed, letting his fingers tighten on Svetlana’s waist as his eyes moved back to Hollander who had picked up his phone again. “See you next season.”

Hollander looked up from his phone with a grin. “Sorry, just Rose.” 

“Just Rose.” St. Simon said through a muffle of fabric. “Only Hollander would say that shit. ‘Oh, just Rose, my smoke show movie star girlfriend. No big deal.’”

“It’s not like that—“

“Sure. We definitely believe that—“ Connors. 

“Meets her on a campaign—“ Marlow. 

“Casually dating—“ Carmichael. 

“There’s nothing to tell—“ Feller. 

“Just Rose.” An entire locker room of players like it was a line they learned for a play. 

“Fuck you guys.” Hollander hissed, cheeks flaming as the roster broke into laughter that seemed to echo from the bottom of their stomachs. 

Ilya couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, either, and Hollander almost looked betrayed. “See you next season, Hollander. Boys.”

✶✶✶

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Ilya needs a very fast car. Very now.

Chapter Notes

✶✶✶

Boston in August was oppressive. 

Shane didn’t particularly care to come back to Massachusetts before he absolutely had to for the season. Not because he didn’t like it, but because it felt like swimming in Satan’s ass. It was humid, hot and everyone was just as miserable as he was. 

Sure, air conditioning was nice but it felt like the entire city was a smog of sweat and borderline violence. Not that it didn’t always have an undercurrent of aggression that Shane found he actually… kind of enjoyed. It was freeing, really, to have his flat, monotone humor and comments wash over other people’s skin and only be met with various versions of this fuckin’ kid. 

He fit in in Boston. Which… had been unexpected. 

He’d always been shy, reserved, focused only on hockey, how he could be better at hockey, the next hockey related task. He’d expected to get drafted to the Voyagers—maybe even go to Toronto—had expected to play the entirety of his career in Canada like the good Canadian boy David and Yuna Hollander had raised him to be. 

But in Boston, his silence was loud. His expressions were boisterous and welcome even while his brain short circuited and tried to navigate the situations in which he found himself. 

He found himself on a team that felt like a mix of a well intentioned frat house and Sunday dinners with his parents. There had never been any undue pressure to go out to the bars after a game, win or lose. Some guys liked to spend odd free nights doing ghost tours and taking day trips to Salem during October. Almost as many were just as eager to go to museums and galleries as they were to a club. Married guys enjoyed having players over for dinners. 

Shane had spent just as much time playing princess and having tea parties as he had building moderately sophisticated Hot Wheels tracks and exaggerated, playful wrestling. 

He liked it. 

Sure, he missed his mom and dad, and yeah, America was brash and, to be frank, kind of fucking scary to live in, but he loved Boston. He liked the weirdness and the normalcy that came with that feeling. 

Massachusetts was serious about its sports teams and sure, maybe sometimes when he was recognized, a fan complimented him and insulted him in the same sentence which made his head feel simultaneously happy and irritated, but it was nice. The people were kind of really fucking rude but they were nice about it. 

It was nothing he ever expected from a bunch of professional athletes and the city they played for, but Shane was happy. 

But he still really fucking hated Boston in the summer. 

“—no, I know. Jesus, I just got off the plane, Marly—“

“If you don’t get your ass over here in the next twenty minutes, Caro is going to gut me like a fuckin’ fish, Holz.”

“You literally live on the other side of the city. I am literally walking into my building. It’s not happening tonight. Tell Caro—“

“I ain’t telling Caro shit. Your ass better be here by six. She’s fuckin’ missed you, brother.”

Shane inhaled, his eyes closing as he counted to ten. He felt the elevator jolt into motion and his knees buckled only a little. “Fuck. Fine. I’ll be there.”

“Yes! Fuckin’ wicked. Okay. Bring beer.” 

His phone went silent against his ear. Shane dropped his head against the elevator wall and pocketed his phone into his shorts. Jesus, was Marly like arguing with a brick wall. 

He hoisted his bag higher up his shoulder as the elevator kept rising and wondered why he even thought that coming back to the city was a good idea. He could have had an extra week at his cottage but some part of him kept tickling at the back of his mind that he needed to be back in Boston. The sooner, the better.

Which fucking sucked. Because Boston in the summer was oppressive. 

He barely opened his eyes when the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. He moved on muscle memory and was surprised when he collided with an oof! into a solid mass of human. 

“Shit, sorry.” He grunted, stepping back and steadying himself. 

“Hollander, you are falling over me in excitement?”

Shane felt his eyes go wide, bulging in surprise as he took in the man in front of him. “Rozanov. Hey… what? No. What are you—?”

“I am living here. I was, uh, going to grocery?”

“Here? You’re living here? What?”

“Da.” Rozanov said, gesturing to the door across the fucking hall from his. “I, ah, buy this one?”

“Oh.” Shane said dumbly. “I live here, too.”

“Ah.” He said, his mouth expanding in a wide smile. “We are roommates?”

“Neighbors.” Shane corrected lightly, stepping around him, fisting his house keys in his hand. “I didn’t even know they were selling that unit.” He wondered if the Anderson family had told him and he’d forgotten. He would have liked to have bought it. For investment purposes. 

“It was not on market long. Very quick. I was wanting spot close to practice rink and Garden.” 

“Cool. Makes sense. This is a good building.” Shane said, pushing open his front door, a whiff of stale, stuffy air hitting him in the face. He turned back to Rozanov. “Um…”

“I should go—“ 

“You want to come in—?”

They stood there, awkwardly, Shane in the doorway and Rozanov standing in front of the elevator. 

“Come in?” He asked, his eyebrows raised. 

Shane huffed slightly, lifting a shoulder. “Yeah, let me set my stuff down. I gotta go to the store, too. I’ve been in Ottawa all summer.”

“Ottawa. That’s bad team, yes?”

Shane felt the laugh bubble low in his stomach, making him feel lighter. “They fucking suck, dude. But Ottawa is my hometown. My parents live there. I have a cottage that I just had built. It’s really remote. Quiet. It’s… it’s nice, honestly. To get away from the city for a few months. Reset, recharge. Shit, that’s so much talking. Sorry.”

“No, no. I like it. Is good for us to get to know each other, no? Teammates.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, uh. How was your summer? You went back to Russia, right?” He asked, kicking his shoes off by the door and retreating further into his apartment. 

He heard Rozanov shut the door behind him as he followed Shane inside. The hallway was short, a coat closet to the right and immediately next to it a half bath with a stacked washer and dryer that Shane half hated because he missed the center agitator of his youth. 

“Ah, summer was fine.” Rozanov told him as he loitered in the living room. “Old teammates not so happy to see me go.”

Shane could understand that. If one of his teammates had decided to up and leave without much notice, he’d probably be pissed, too. “Were they not good about it?”

“Ah, mostly fine. I did not, hm, really care for most of them. They did not understand why I am willing to change position.”

“To be honest, Rozanov, I don't really get it, either.”

Shane dropped his backpack on the kitchen island and pulled open a drawer to his side, a notepad and a pen dropping onto the marble in front of him. 

He heard Rozanov approach the island opposite of him and saw him lean on his elbows, his hands clasped in front of him in an easy manner. “I think I would have been first draft pick.”

Shane scoffed. “Okay, asshole.”

He grinned. “But, ah, I was… hm, signed to Ak Bars after Prospect Cup. It was not my choice.”

“Oh.” Shane said softly, looking up from the grocery list he was scribbling quickly. “I figured you just, like, hated Canada or something.”

“Not hate, no. But Boston is better, yes? Nice. I like it here.” He hummed. “Sveta has lived here for many years. Her dad was Boston goalie years ago. Vetrov. You know him, yes?”

Oh. Svetlana. Shane had forgotten the pretty girl that Rozanov had curled into him in the locker room after the Cup. Which, honestly, Shane could hardly be faulted for. That entire night felt like a blur, a moment he witnessed through foggy glass. 

“Yeah, I do. He’s a legend.” Shane’s pen hesitated on the pen. “She seemed nice.”

Rozanov nodded. “Very nice. I like her.” He said easily. “She knows hockey better than anyone.”

“Sounds perfect.” Shane’s eyebrows furrowed unconsciously as he scribbled beer in sloppy, unpracticed letters. It was never on his grocery list. He cleared his throat. “Do you have a car yet?”

“Nyet.” He pushed back from the island, his arms curling behind his back which made his chest puff out. Which Shane definitely shouldn’t have appreciated. “I have been walking. Getting to know neighborhood. Sveta works for fancy car business. I will buy one before camp, yes?”

“Right. Sure. That’s smart. Uh, you can also, like… go with me? To practice. It’s pretty easy to get to the Garden from here but…”

Rozanov blinked. “You will ride me?”

Shane choked on his own saliva. “Drive.” He said thickly, rushed. “I will drive you.”

Shane tried not to notice the smile on the other boy’s face or the way his own flushed with heat. “It’s not a big deal or anything. It’s whatever.”

“Hm.” Rozanov hummed innocently. “I would like this. Team building. Good captain, Hollander.” 

“Shut up.” Shane laughed, a bit stilted and uneasy. He opened a cabinet and pulled out his reusable tote bags, folded in perfect squares and rubberbanded together. “You ready?”

Rozanov’s eyebrow quirked upwards at the bags in his hands. “For?”

“The grocery store, asshole. Let’s go.”

“Ok, ok, Captain. Yes.” 

The ride down the elevator into the parking garage was silent but not uncomfortably so. For all intents and purposes, this was the fourth time they had ever met, and didn’t know each other. Like, at all. But there was a certain camaraderie you developed as a hockey player with infinite trades and schedules. Knowing you had at least one thing in common with someone was, well, an icebreaker. 

“You meet up with any of the other guys, yet? Did Coach give you the contact sheet?”

“Ah, yes. But no. I have been mostly with Svetlana since I got here from Russia.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, that makes sense. You probably didn’t get to see her a lot before, right?”

“Mm, no. Not often.” Rozanov said from behind Shane as they stepped into the garage. “She prefers Boston to Moscow.” 

Shane hummed an answer as he fished his car keys from his pocket and hit the unlock button. 

“No.”

“What?” He asked, putting his hand on the door handle of his car. 

“You drive… Honda? Oh my god, Hollander, you are so boring.”

“It’s a good car!” Shane protested. “We get a lot of snow!”

Rozanov’s face was a scowl, disdain and disgust written over his expression like a manifesto. “This is very embarrassing, Hollander. I think I will need to buy car fast. Very. Very fast and very now.”

“Ohmyf’inggod. Get in.” Shane huffed, dropping into the driver’s seat of his very sensible and practical CRV. 

Rozanov situated himself in the passenger seat like he was afraid the ostentatious safety features would seep into his skin and fester. “It’s… nice.”

“You’re such an asshole.” Shane grunted, turning the car on and pulling out of his spot. 

“No, no. I love it. It is very… ah, football mom.”

Shane tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “Fuck you.”

“You have, hm, many children? That you drive to, ah, things?”

“Look, Rozanov, Boston has four seasons: two weeks of summer, winter, construction and pothole.”

“What is… pothole? I do not know this.”

“It’s, ugh, shit. Look right there—you see that hole in the road on the left?”

Rozanov did see the large hole in the street and flinched when a car in front of them drove right through it, seemingly scraping the undercarriage of the car against the blacktop. “Oh. That is pothole.” 

“All fucking year. They patch it, it’s nice for a week, and then overnight it’s just… it’s like the Big Dig.” 

“I do not know these words, Hollander. Big Dig?”

“Forget it. It’s nothing. Anyway, this car is sensible.”

“Hm. Boring.” Rozanov hummed, pushing his finger to the display between them. “I want fast car. Very loud color.”

“Of course you do.” Shane muttered, smacking Rozanov’s hand away from the screen. 

✶✶✶

“You are sure is ok that I come?” Ilya asked as he stepped out of Shane’s car and trailed him towards the front door of Marly’s townhouse. 

“Yeah, it’s cool. Marly is great and Caro is really sweet.” Shane told him, a twelve pack of Sam Adams tucked under his arm. 

“I, ah, am not wanting to get in way.” 

Shane hit his knuckles against the heavy oak door quickly. “Gotta get to know the guys eventually, Rozanov.”

He hummed, angling his body slightly behind Shane as boisterous footsteps hit the door before it was opened quickly. 

“Holz!”

Ilya did not not see the six foot something man he expected. He didn’t actually see anyone at all until his eyes flashed down the doorway, past Hollander’s ass, and to a tiny girl in the threshold who quickly launched herself at Hollander’s knees. 

“Caro! Jesus Christ, you can’t just open the door without me!” Cliff Marlow’s voice boomed from inside the brownstone before he materialized in the open door. 

“It’s Holz!” She said petulantly, and Ilya didn’t know her, or her dad, but he could hear the eyeroll. 

“God.” Marlow huffed, scraping a hand over his face. “Roz, hey, man. Holz didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“Ah. Sorry.” He grimaced. 

“Who are you?”

“Caro!” Marly and Hollander scolded together. 

“I am Ilya.” He said, crouching to the ground and tilting his head to the side. “You are Caro?”

She loosened her grip from around Shane’s legs, her eyebrows furrowed as she looked him over skeptically. “I am Caroline.” She sniffed, reaching up for Shane’s free hand and tugging him into the house. 

Ilya’s mouth dropped, a short gasp of surprise at her dismissal making his cheeks warm and ache as a smile erupted. “She is perfect.” He told Marlow as he raised himself to full height. 

“She’s fuckin’ something, man. Come in. Don’t mind the chaos.” 

Ilya allowed himself to be waved over the threshold and toed his sneakers off before he followed Marlow further into his home. The house was littered with sparkly dresses, discarded play makeup, toys, books and nail polish bottles cluttering almost every flat surface he could see. The layer of girl over the perpetual bachelor reds and blacks and greys were a startling contrast to his eyes. 

“I’m beat, Marly. I’m not staying long.” Hollander said as he pried open the box of beer he’d set on the kitchen counter next to where Caro—Caroline—had seemingly climbed up to sit and make herself taller. 

“But Holz I haven’t seen you in forever.” Caroline bemoaned, kicking her legs out and back against the cabinets. 

Hollander twisted off the caps of three beers and slid two of them across the counter towards Ilya and Marlow. “I know, Caro.” He said, ruffling the hair on the top of her head. “I’ll come back over later this week.” 

Ilya pulled the bottle of beer into his hands to give them something to do as he took in his surroundings. Marlow’s house was very lived in, chaos as he’d said, but homey. Ilya didn’t think he’d ever seen a home used so thoroughly before. 

“So what’s good, man? You settling in okay?” Marlow asked, angling his body towards him. 

“Ah, yes.” Ilya said. “Boston is… nice. Very… wet, though? Yes?”

A big, toothy grin erupted over his face. “Fuckin’ humid. Swamp ass for fuckin’ months.”

“Marly, you can’t say shit like that in front of your kid.” Hollander said, curling a hand over only one of Caroline’s ears. 

“Shit!” She parroted and all three men turned their gaze on her. 

“Caro!” Marlow groaned. “I’m going to hell.” 

“Jar.” Hollander said to Marlow, pointing to the large mason jar on the other side of the kitchen which was full of coins and bills of all denominations crumpled through it, while simultaneously fishing his own wallet out. “I’ve only got loonies, Caro.”

She held her hand out expectantly. “Please.” 

Marlow grunted but fished a dollar out of his pocket and tossed it towards the jar. Ilya felt delighted at watching this young girl boss around two professional athletes like she was their coach. 

“You staying with your girl, Roz?” 

“Oh, ah. No. I am in Hollander’s building.”

“Ran into him right off the elevator after I got off the phone with you.” He said, the amber bottle pressed against his lower lip as he spoke. Ilya watched a trickle of condensation fall over his finger. “Bought the apartment across the hall. Didn’t even know they put it on the market.”

“You’re just mad you couldn’t buy it in your quest to own the whole floor, Holz.” 

“Fu—shut up.” Hollander choked over the curse that came naturally to his lips. 

“Ah, you are jealous?” Ilya asked, popping his hip against the cabinet. “Now you have team spy on floor. Is very Russian of me, no?”

Marly chortled, clapping Ilya on the shoulder as he stepped past him on his way to the kitchen table that was covered in more paper, toys and a tablet that looked to be more stickers than screen. 

“Shut up.” Hollander said without bite, and helped Caroline off the counter. “I just like investment opportunities.”

“He’s gonna own half the city before long, Roz. Be glad you got that apartment when he was outta the country.” 

✶✶✶

Ilya liked Marlow. And he was obsessed with the precociousness of his daughter. 

Hollander had been dutiful to his commitment to not staying longer than an hour. Marlow had told Ilya that he could stay but he was just as eager as Hollander was to get back to his apartment. It was nice, he thought, to feel like he already had two friends in Boston. 

His captain and assistant captain. 

“I’m doing captain skates next week.” Hollander said casually, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel.  

“I will be there.” Ilya said with a nod. “Will be good to see if we have, ah, chemistry. On ice.” 

“Yeah. On the ice. Definitely.” Hollander said with a small smile tipping his cheeks upwards. “You gonna get a car?”

“Ah, yes. But maybe I will be needing, hm, ride. By the captain, probably.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely. Even if it’s in a Honda.”

“God, so boring. I will never recover from shame.” 

“Fuck off!” Hollander laughed, his arm snapping out and hitting Ilya in the bicep. “It’s a good car!”

“Ok, ok. I am sorry.” He said, his hands held up in defeat. “Is very good, boring car. For boring hockey captain. Is perfect.” 

“Such an asshole.” 

Ilya smiled, turning his face to the window to hide it. 

He was really going to like Boston. 

✶✶✶

Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading this totally au, non canon compliant brain wave of mine.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Are we there yet?

Chapter Notes

✶✶✶

The knock sounded against his door at 9:45AM on the dot. 

Ilya had been waiting for it. Not desperately or pacing at the door or anything, but demurely on his sofa. He was dressed and ready to go, his hockey bag packed and set against the wall in the hallway. 

“Ah, so punctual, Captain.” He’d hummed in lieu of good morning. 

“You ready?” Hollander had asked, his hand flexing over the straps of his own bag. 

“Mm.” Ilya nodded, grabbing his equipment bag from the floor. “Yes. Ready.” 

Ilya had clenched his fists in his lap as Hollander maneuvered the car.

“You got your credentials and everything, right? We’re not supposed to tailgate in secure areas.”

“Tailgate? What is this?”

“Like, okay. So the practice rink is open to the public, you know? But there are areas just for us—like the gym, the hallway to the players area. You need to scan your keycard. You can’t just—fuck!” Hollander slammed his hand on the horn as a car swerved in front of them and he hit the breaks to avoid crashing into the taillights. “These fucking assholes. Jesus Christ. Fuck you!” He yelled, his hands leaving the wheel, shaking out his adrenaline. “Fuck, I hate driving here. Jesus.”

Ilya’s eyebrows were in his hairline, his own hand pulling at the seatbelt that was locked against his chest tightly. “Wow.” He drawled. “Yes, Hollander, I have, uh, credential.” He patted the pocket of his track pants. 

“Okay. Okay, good.” Hollander was still glaring at the car in front of them. “It’s pretty easy to get to Warrior. Just gotta get on 90 and go west.” 

“Ah.” Ilya nodded and let his eyes fall on a sign that had a top hat with a buckle on it. Weird. 

✶✶✶

Captain Skate was good. It was lowkey even though it seemed like most of the players attended. Ilya thought that maybe only a few of the European players were missing. 

It was exhilarating to play on the ice with Hollander, even just a scrimmage, barely even a practice. He already knew what it would be like to play against him, of course, at least from viewing game tapes and their games as prospects. Playing with him felt different, right. It felt like a piece of Ilya slot into place and it made him feel whole. 

He didn’t really want to think about it further than that. 

“There’s a deli I like.” Hollander said as they made their way out of the practice barn, smiling briefly at a few youth teams making their way in for their scheduled time. 

“Hm?” Ilya said, tossing his gear into Hollander’s trunk. 

“I’m just… I’m kind of hungry.” He admitted with a shrug. “I can drop you off at our building. If you want. But, I’m gonna go… to this deli. That I like.”

“Hollander, so many words. We will go to deli. I can eat.” 

“Okay. Okay, cool. Yeah. Let’s go.” 

Ilya couldn’t tell you what roads they took, what neighborhood they were in, but what he could say is that he never envisioned Hollander ever finding a place like this. Simply Bill’s Deli. The sign was old, hand painted with letters fading. The sign in the window wanted to say OPEN but instead just said OPE and Ilya thought that was funny. 

“I know it looks, like, a health and safety hazard.” Hollander said as they got out of his car, the beep of it locking ringing on the quiet-ish one way street. “But it’s really good.”

“You will murder me?” Ilya asked, an eyebrow raised. 

Hollander shoved at his shoulder. “Maybe.” He agreed, tugging the door open, a little bell above the door signaling their arrival. 

Inside, Bill’s Deli was well lit. Almost too well lit. The floor was black and white checkerboard with many of the tiles cracked in the middle and at the corners due to age and wear and tear. There were coolers spread around the walls, full of tubs labeled with their contents and drinks. Shelves of chips and sides were haphazardly placed in the middle along with a few mismatched tables and chairs that looked like they could be moved around at the sitter’s will. 

“It’s… nice.” Ilya offered, following a step or two behind Hollander as he made his way towards a large glass case at the back of the room.

“I like to grab a bite every month or so. I don’t really eat a lot of bread or anything, or cold cuts. So much salt and sometimes if I think too hard about how it’s made, I get grossed out, but fuck. The Italian is so good.”

Ilya’s mouth turned down in concentration as he dissected Hollander’s long sentences of English. “Italian? Is what you like?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, it’s the sandwich. It’s just, like, salami and mortadella—it’s good. We can, uh, split it? What do you think you’ll get?” 

Ilya let his eyes focus on the chalkboard above their head. He could read English, obviously, but he was realizing that he didn’t really know many of the food related words that were written in faded and crumbly chalk. 

“Ah, what is your second favorite? I will get.” 

“Are you sure? You don’t, like, have any allergies or anything, right?”

“No. No allergies. Not, hm, picked?”

“Picky.” Hollander said absently as a gruff hand beckoned them towards the case. “Hey, an Italian and Rueben. Do you like pickles?” He asked over his shoulder. 

“Da.” 

“Cool. Extra pickles on the side, and we’ll grab two bags of chips and two sodas.” 

Hollander pulled out a fistful of cash, and gestured towards the coolers to Ilya. “Grab me a ginger ale, yeah?” 

Ilya didn’t protest over not paying for his own sandwich but already was making plans of how to repay Hollander. 

Ilya sat down at a rickety table in the window, the seat creaking in duress under the sheer amount of him and watched Hollander waiting at the counter, his shoulders flexing under his tshirt in a way Ilya appreciated. 

Very much. 

Hollander eventually moved towards him, his hands clenched round two butcher paper wrapped sandwiches and grabbed a chair with his free hand, scraping it against the tiles and flinching when it made a screech. 

“Fuck, I hate that noise.” He grumbled, setting a sandwich in front of Ilya. 

“So, this is, ah, big city sandwich?”

Hollander’s cheeks flushed and Ilya tried not to stare at his freckles. “No. I, uh, I don’t actually know how I found this place.” He admitted, unwrapping his lunch. “I think I felt a little homesick when I was a rookie and… I don’t know. Bill’s Deli just… it’s stupid, actually. Nevermind.” 

“No. Is not stupid, Hollander, tell me.” Ilya pressed his finger into the toasted bread experimentally and nodded to himself. 

He exhaled a breath from his nose before he brought his own sandwich to his mouth and taking a bite. Hollander was quiet for a moment, only the sound of them both chewing present. He nodded his head, like he’d finished having a conversation in his own mind. “My grandpa—my dad’s dad—he owned this little grocery store. Bill’s Grocery Market. And I used to like help stock shelves when I wasn’t busy with hockey. Which, like, was rare. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Ilya agreed. 

“He eventually sold it. So it’s not even his place anymore but the new owner’s kept the name and I don’t know—I guess I just saw Bill’s Deli in Boston and just kind of felt like it was a little piece of home.”

Ilya’s heart felt a little warm in his chest and he tried to focus on the sandwich. Which was, truly, good. “Very sentimental, Hollander.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, no. Is nice, I think, to have piece of home.” Ilya said as he pulled the tiny bag of chips open. 

“Yeah. Thanks.” Hollander said, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “Did you? Have a piece of home when you were playing with Ak Bars?”

“Ah, is different in Russia. It is mostly same, I think. Not too much, hm, shock? Just a lot of hockey and vodka and clubs.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess. Do you, uh, like clubbing? A lot?”

Ilya felt his mouth tip upwards. “I am Slavic, Hollander.”

“Yeah, I don’t really know what that’s supposed to mean.” His brows furrowed. 

“It means I am always wanting to go to clubs and dance. Party, have good time, yes?” 

“Ah, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t really…”

“No!” Ilya gasped, pressing the palm of his hand against his jaw, his mouth dropping open. “This is shock to me!”

“God, you’re an asshole.” He laughed, balling a napkin in his fist and tossing it at Ilya. 

“No, no. Is good. I, uh, sometimes like boring, too.” Ilya told him, pulling the napkin missile from his lap and setting it on the table between them. 

“Sometimes?”

“Da. Like Canadian sandwich shop in Boston.”

Hollander’s cheeks flushed again but he didn’t respond to Ilya. His eyes remained cast downwards as he toyed with the butcher paper half of his sandwich rested on. 

Ilya finished the one half of his own and before he could think twice about it, he pulled Hollander’s towards him and pushed his towards Hollander. “We share, yes?”

Big, brown eyes glanced at Ilya from under lashes. “Yeah. Cool. Thanks.”

✶✶✶

Shane wasn’t sure how he’d fallen into such easy habits with Ilya Rozanov. 

He’d only really known him for a few weeks, a few of them being his personal driver around the city as they went to and from captain skates which turned into practices. They’d had lunch at random spots through the city or had gone and done their own separate grocery shopping together. It had been wordless, no communication necessary. 

Shane would grab his reusable bags, tuck them under his arm and walk across the hall and knock. Rozanov would appear, new reusable bags not yet worn down from use balled in his fists. It only made Shane feel a little crazy because it wasn’t that hard to fold the bags neatly but it was decidedly not his business. 

When preseason was kicking off, Shane was half listening for the knock on his door to come as he was gathering his travel bag into his hand. 

He wasn’t disappointed. 

“Hollander!”

“Doors open!” He called back. 

Purposefully leaving his door unlocked went against every instinct in his body. He wasn’t sure why the friendship he’d easily picked up with his Russian neighbor made him do reckless things like leave his apartment door open, or do weekly grocery shops with someone he didn’t even live with.  

Or carpool. Or show him around the city on rest days. It was stupid, obviously. Rozanov had been visiting Boston for years.

But he lived here now. It was his city. 

And Shane wanted him to see the parts of the city he loved. Share small parts of the safe spaces he’d found during his own first few seasons with him. 

It was just being a good teammate. A good captain. A good… friend. 

“I will drive, yes?” Rozanov asked, told? Shane, dropping his own bag just inside the open doorway. 

Shane shot him a look through narrowed eyes. “Your car can barely fit your shit, never mind mine.” 

Rozanov clicked his tongue, waving his hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry. It will fit.” 

Shane felt heat fill his cheeks and he turned his back to his neighbor and moved into the kitchen. He checked that his oven and stove were off, his toaster unplugged, his fridge was still running and the water faucet was completely turned off. 

“What are you doing, Hollander?”

Shane glanced over his shoulder quickly. “Just making sure everything is off.”

“Why?”

“So I have an apartment to come home to.” 

“Ah.” He hummed like that was all the explanation needed. 

Shane surveyed his space once more and nodded to himself. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“I drive, yes?”

“Fuck, fine. But I swear to god if you kill us on the Pike, I will kill you. Again.” 

Rozanov’s eyes rolled into his skull. “God, you are so boring, Hollander.” 

Shane wasn’t sure that a car could get more… green. It was loud, almost neon, and so fucking small that even he felt like he was folding himself in half to fit in the passenger seat. The engine was loud and the car vibrated around him.

He wondered how Rozanov could feel comfortable in the driver’s seat. 

But the ostentatious car aside, Rozanov looked thrilled to be behind the wheel, his right hand resting on the gear shift. 

“Is nice, yes?”

“What is?” Shane asked, his fingers tightening over the fabric of his joggers as Rozanov sped past a particularly slow Toyota Camry. 

“Being, ah, passenger printsessa? For me?”

“You’re such an asshole. I’m not a fucking passenger princess.” 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You are passenger, Hollander. And printsessa, I think.”

“I’m a fucking hockey player, Rozanov.”

“Ah, yes. Very good.” He agreed. “Second best, probably.”

“What? No I’m not. Who the fuck do you think is first?”

“Ah, me. Of course.” 

Shane scoffed, his eyes narrowing on Rozanov’s profile, unable to see much of his expression due to the sunglasses perched on his nose. “Of course.” Shane mocked. “Fuck you.”

Rozanov grinned, glancing away from the road quickly. “Maybe if you ask nicely, Hollander.”

Shane couldn’t help the flush that crept up his neck like a spider in a drain spout, or the way his heart thumped wildly in his chest, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh even though it was still blisteringly hot in late September. 

“Asshole.” 

✶✶✶

He stood towards the back of the pack as the bus driver helped stash their bags in the cargo area and shifted from foot to foot. He’d gotten used to the ease in which the team communicated but he still didn’t really know any of his teammates outside of Hollander. 

Which was fine, really, but he also didn’t want to feel like a pariah. 

When he made his way onto the bus, he was unsurprised to see Hollander sitting in the row directly behind their head coach. “Boring.” He blew a raspberry towards Hollander but settled in the empty row behind him and across the aisle from Carmichael. 

The Boston Bears team bus was a lot nicer than the one he was used to in Russia. The fabric on the seats were mostly untorn or was repaired nicely with patches. The aisle was wider and there was a relatively decent size bathroom tucked in the back corner. 

Ilya would not be using it. 

“Where’s Marlow?” Coach LeClaire asked, standing in his row and surveying the bus, a clipboard and pen in his hands. 

“He texted me, said his sister was late getting to his house to grab Caro.” Hollander answered. 

“Which fucking one?” A voice—Ilya thought it might be Hammersmith—from the back called to a chorus of laughter Ilya didn’t understand. 

“Fuck! Sorry! Shit!” 

Marlow was there, his hair falling slightly in his face as he ran up the short steps of the bus with a grimace. He bared his teeth in apology and dropped down in the seat beside Ilya with an oomph. 

“Nice of you to join us, kid.” LeClaire huffed with a dramatic flourish of his pen ticking off Marlow’s name on his clipboard. “Let’s roll. Long way to New York, boys.” 

“You good, Marly?” Hollander asked, peaking over the back of his seat. 

“Yeah, Holz. Fuck, I’m sorry. Aggy got stuck in traffic. Fucking shit show today.” 

Hollander hummed in understanding and turned back in his seat. 

“What is Aggy?” Ilya asked. 

“Oh, my sister—“

“One of—“

“Fuck you, Carmel.” Marly snapped back to Carmichael before shifting in his seat to face Ilya a bitch. “One of,” he sniffed, flipping Carmichael off when the other man laughed, “my sisters. I’ve got 7.”

“Fuck.” Ilya grunted, horrified at the thought of having any more than one sibling, let alone seven, and seven sisters an entirely different thing aside. “Why?”

Marly groaned. “I don’t fucking know? Catholics, man.” He huffed a breath out and dug around in his pockets for his phone and headphones. “There’s Mary, Catherine, Agnes, Margaret, Lucia, Grace and Josephine. Josephine is my twin sister. We’re the youngest.”

“Did your parents not have electricity, Marly? Couldn’t find any way else to pass the time?” St. Simon called from somewhere further back on the bus.

“We had electricity, asshat. Fuck, just because your parents hated each other.”

“Touché, mon ami. Touché.” 

“This is so many sisters, Marly.” Ilya said unhelpfully. 

He shrugged his shoulder. “It’s good for me, though. I hardly ever have to call in a nanny service. I grew up in Dorchester—uh, it’s like a half hour south of TD. Most of my sisters still live around because where the fuck else would you wanna be but Boston?”

“Mm.” Ilya nodded, agreeing in his head. Boston is where he’d wanted to be after all. 

“My ma would fuckin’ kill me if anyone but family watched Caro.”

“Ah. How is Caroline? She is still perfect, yes?”

Marly grinned. “You can call her Caro, Roz.”

No he couldn’t. “Ah, no. This I cannot do. She must tell me I can. Cannot go against a lady’s wish.”

“You’re a fuckin’ beaut.” Marly told him, nudging his shoulder against Ilya’s arm. 

“Where is, ah, her mama? Is ok if you do not want to talk.”

“Caro’s mom wasn’t interested in being a mom.” Marlow said softly. “She was a surprise—not gonna call her an accident because I’d make the same mistake every time because it brought her to me, but… Jen got pregnant at the end of high school. We went to Catholic School—don’t recommend that by the way—and, fuck, man. It sucked. I had been drafted by then but I was playing in the AHL in Providence and Jen just couldn’t handle it. Had Caro and bounced. She sends a card every year on her birthday, but…”

“But is just you and Caroline.” 

“And my seven sisters. And my ma. God, surrounded by fuckin’ women all the fuckin’ time, Roz.”

“Is good, no? You are mostly spending so much time with all men.” 

“You’re not wrong, brother.” 

Marly settled back in his seat, putting his headphones in as he did. 

Ilya adjusted in his own seat, resting his head against the glass window of the bus and watching the cars race by beside them. He sighed a little before he pushed his hand through the space between the seat in front of him and the window. 

“Hollander… Hollander.”

“What, Roz?”

“Are we there yet?”

“God, you’re an asshole.” Hollander laughed, swatting his hand at Ilya’s before he withdrew it back to his side. 

Ilya smiled. “Is that a no, Captain?”

“Fuck off, Roz.”

Ilya grinned. 

✶✶✶

Chapter End Notes

I am not an author's note kind of person but I do want to thank you for reading, or a reply commenter really. But I do read them all and appreciate them very much. tysm.

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

Ice cream.

Chapter Notes

✶✶✶

“He is very old.”

“He’s twenty seven.”

Rozanov waved his hand away in dismissal. “Grandfather.” 

Shane grinned a little even though he wasn’t feeling particularly joyful. Losing the first preseason game coming off their Stanley Cup win felt like a slap shot to the jaw. “Hunter only does well at home games. Once the Admirals start their away games, he’ll tank.”

“Performance anxiety, probably.” Carmel said from beneath the ball cap that he had resting over his face as the bus drove them to their next destination. 

Philadelphia. And then to Washington, before heading back to Boston for the final three games of preseason at home. 

“Ah. He is so old and he cannot get it up.” Rozanov said matter of factly. 

The front of the team bus, clustered and draped with a smattering of players, were running through Chirp Class with Rozanov—giving small factoids of different players they’d all encountered in the years of playing against, or some with in the case of Feller, St. Simon, Connors and Kohn—to arm him thoroughly for his first season as a Bear. 

Shane had noticed on the ice that Rozanov had an uncanny ability to crawl under the opposing players’ skins and burrow there like a parasite. Shane didn’t chirp much himself, his brain laser focused on the puck, pathways and points that laid before him on a battlefield only he could see, but a lot of his teammates were mouthy and enjoyed the chirping that went hand in hand with hockey. 

“… Vaughn might be…”

Shane liked Carter Vaughn. He was boisterous and loud and infectiously happy. He reminded Shane of a golden retriever greeting you at the door when you got home, tail wagging and a pilfered shoe clutched in its jaws in excitement. Shane didn’t have any bad things to say really about Vaughn, or anyone really. 

“He likes gummy bears on coffee ice cream.” Shane said absent mindedly. 

Shane felt the silence hush over their small crowd more than he saw it. His field of vision was filled primarily with the ugly geometric print of the bus seat and the plastic armrest his ankle rested on with a Reebok sneaker hanging in the aisle. 

“What the fuck?” Feller spluttered abruptly after a moment. “Is he a fucking serial killer?”

“Why do you know that, Holz?” Marly asked, his face peeking up over the back of Shane’s seat. 

“We had ice cream together in Russia. Hunter, too.” 

Marly blinked, turning his head to his right where Shane knew Rozanov was sitting, the two of them apparently becoming seat mates and roommates quickly. “You have ice cream in Russia?”

Shane bit back the smile that started at the sound of Rozanov’s indignant squawk of offense.

“Shut your idiot face, Marly.” 

Marly let out an abrupt oomph as Roz seemingly hit him and Shane heard him fall back into his seat with a thump. Before the minute was up, Roz’s hand was pushed through the crevice between the bus window and Shane’s seat, his fingers grabbing at his hoodie. 

“Hollander… Hollander…” 

“What, Rozanov?”

“You do not buy me ice cream. Why is this?”

Shane tipped his head to the side, only half startled to see Rozanov’s face squished in the space between his seat and the window. “You want me to take you out for ice cream?” He asked dubiously. 

“Da. Yes. Very much, I think.” 

Shane’s mouth tipped in a smile. “Okay.” 

He was blinded by the easy smile that came over Rozanov’s face, his fingers clutching Shane’s sleeve once before it was his entire bicep. Another squeeze. A grin mellowing into a soft smile. Another squeeze before he dragged his fingers away, letting the fabric of Shane’s sleeve go at the very last second. 

“Marly, tell me more about Philadelphia players…” 

✶✶✶

If New York had been an embarrassment for the Boston Bears, Philadelphia was their salvation. 

Shane was very much in the habit of critiquing teams’ player management and their line decisions, but he kept those thoughts to himself until they were sitting in tape review. The rest of his team had no such qualms. 

“What the fuck was that?” St. Simon asked the room at large as he stripped himself of his pads. 

“Their defense was fuckin’ lobotomized over the summer.” Connors theorized. 

“Their offense was just as bad—“

“I’m pretty sure Carmel took a nap second period—“

“A lil siesta in the crease—“

“Can you believe that center was a third round pick—“

Shane nodded his head as his teammates dissected their obliterated opponents as he stripped himself down to his compression clothing. Rozanov’s arm kept brushing against his shoulder, innocuous and seemingly deliberate. He was engaged in loud conversation with almost the entirety of the room, a loud sentry to Shane’s personal space. 

Shane stripped himself further, keeping his eyes focused on the borrowed stall, his soiled and sweaty clothing in a neat, if damp, pile on the bench. 

He jumped a bit when Rozanov touched his elbow as he turned to head to the communal shower. 

“Ice cream?” Rozanov asked lowly, his eyes focused resolutely on Shane’s eyes. 

“Now?”

“Mm, no. After.” He hummed, tipping his jaw in the direction of the showers that were starting to run. 

“We have a game in two days.” 

Rozanov blew a raspberry, his eyes rolling back in his head. “You are so boring, Hollander. We will get ice cream. Ok?”

Shane let his eyes rest on the bare expanse of golden skin of Rozanov’s clavicle. “Okay.” 

The smile was worth the mental calculations Shane had now running through his mind at how much harder he’d have to work out tomorrow to burn the excess of calories off so it didn’t feel like a ticking time bomb in his body.  

✶✶✶

Ilya combed his fingers through his hair, pushing the wet curls away from his eyes. He’d showered and dressed quickly, and joined the leisurely pace of the team back to their bus.

He sat next to Hollander and met Marly’s upticked, questioning brow with a shrug of his shoulder. 

“I have found ice cream.” Ilya told Hollander. “We will go, yes?”

Hollander tapped his fingers over his knee. “What? Yeah. Of course.” 

“It is just, ah, us?”

Hollander’s fingers stilled on his knee before plucking the fabric of his joggers into his fist. His lips pursed and Ilya could see the furrow of his brow in profile. “Just me and you?”

“Mm.” Ilya nodded, his hand moving to rest on his own knee, close to Hollander’s clenched fist. 

“Okay.” He blew out a breath, nodding to himself. 

They stood towards the back of the team as roomkeys and assignments were handed out, Ilya and Marly again, Shane alone—a perk of being captain, Ilya was sure. He trudged side by side with Marlow into the elevator, his bag over his shoulder feeling heavy like it was filled with concrete. 

“You good?” Marly asked, looking up from his phone, glancing at him sideways. 

Ilya gave a short nod. “Da.” 

“You were a beast today.” He commented, his thumb swiping up on the screen. “That wraparound was wicked.” 

Ilya nodded again. “Goalie was very slow. Very embarrassing.” 

Marlow grinned, knocking his shoulder against Ilya’s. “I’m gonna order some room service, you want?”

“Ah, no. I am going to go for walk.” 

“Word. Don’t get lost.” 

Ilya had no concerns about getting lost, sure that if he did, Hollander would quickly have them back on their way in seconds. 

He followed Marly into their room, immediately moving towards the bed closest to the door and dropping his bag on the foot of the bed. “Will be back later.” He said quickly before slipping back out of the room. 

Ilya stood close to the automatic doors of the hotel lobby, looking down at his phone even though the screen was dark. He looked unapproachable to other people milling around, but wouldn’t look like he was anxiously waiting for Hollander to spill into the lobby from the elevator bank. 

Every time the elevator dinged, he couldn’t help but raise his eyes from the empty screen and up, across the lobby to see who had arrived. 

“Hey, you ready?”

“Fuck!” Ilya hissed, jumping, his phone tumbling from his hand only to be bounced with the other until he managed to still it between his palms. “Fuck! Where do you come from, Hollander?” 

Hollander’s cheeks spread in a smile, a short laugh escaping his mouth. “The stairs. You’re so scared.”

“Fuck!” Ilya said, again, pressing his phone and hand to his heart, trying to quell the jumpscare adrenaline rushing through his veins. “You wear bell next time.”

“Okay.” He said pleasantly, stepping around Ilya and triggering the door censor. 

Ilya followed him onto the sidewalks of Philadelphia, sliding his phone into his pocket and falling into step beside Hollander. The city was dusky, the sunlight simmering against glass windows and the shiny paint of cars. Ilya had never been to this city before, had really never been to any American cities outside of Boston, New York and Las Vegas. 

“Do you like living in America?” Ilya asked. 

Hollander was quiet outside of a hem for a while. “I don’t know. I mean, Boston is great but… I don’t think America is very great. I’m glad I’m not a citizen, if I’m being honest.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t stay here after retirement, that’s for sure.”

“You think Canada is better?”

Hollander shot him a look that very clearly illustrated his thoughts. “Obviously.” 

Ilya nodded, blowing up his cheeks with breath before letting it go. “I do not want Russian passport.” 

“What?”

“Is not so good. Is long way away, but I am wanting.”

“Huh,” Hollander hummed, “Well, I mean, America isn’t that bad. I guess.” 

Ilya let out a startled laugh. “This is fast mind change, Hollander.” 

He shrugged a bit, his feet stuttering to a stop as they hit the storefront of the ice cream parlor. “This the one?”

“Da.” Ilya nodded, his hand grasping for the door handle before Hollander could get to it and holding it open. 

Hollander’s cheeks turned a pretty pink as he moved in front of Ilya, and he couldn’t resist the temptation of placing his hand on the curve of his spine, his palm pressing into him as he followed behind. 

He didn’t move away from Ilya, only acknowledging the touch with a bashful smile over his shoulder as they took their spots in the back of the line. 

“What are you going to get?”

Ilya hummed, his fingers tightening over the fabric of Hollander’s shirt once, twice, and releasing. “Will you, ah, tell me? The flavors.”

“Yeah. Okay. Um, the usual. Vanilla, chocolate, butter pecan, which sounds gross by the way. Uh, they’ve got pistachio, cookies n’ cream—that’s like Oreos and vanilla—mint chocolate chip… uh. Shit, there’s so many. Strawberry honey, blueberry lemon… um…”

“I will have strawberry honey, I think.” 

“Okay, cool.”

“Next.” 

“Yeah, hey, can I get a scoop of pistachio and then he’ll get a scoop—“

“Ah, no. I want big. All the scoop.”

“You don’t need three scoops of ice cream, Rozanov.”

“I want, Hollander.”

“Jesus, fine. One scoop of pistachio and your largest size of strawberry honey—”

“Cone.”

Hollander shot him an exasperated look. “On a cone.”  He told the young girl behind the case before he turned back to Ilya. “I’m not going to feel bad when you feel like shit. That’s so much, dude.” 

Ilya shrugged, watching as the girl scooped an unexpectedly large scoop of ice cream into a small dish. 

Oh, Ilya thought, Americans. It was too late to change the amount of ice cream he was getting, not because she was in the process of putting it on a cone, but because he couldn’t give Hollander the satisfaction of being right. 

“Is perfect. Thank you.” Ilya said graciously, trying to hide the grimace on his face at the mountain of iced dairy on his cone. 

Hollander dropped a few bills on the counter, his ice cream portion dwarfed in size to Ilya’s. He grabbed a spoon from the dispenser and a fistful of napkins and suddenly Hollander’s hand was on his back, guiding him away from the case and towards a small gathering of tables in the back corner. 

Ilya’s ice cream was already melting onto the cone, dripping in sticky drops over his fingers. He licked his cone clean before his tongue swept over his fingers. 

Hollander was watching him as he sat down at the table, his mouth downturned, probably in repulsion Ilya thought. 

“Thank you for ice cream.” Ilya said, sitting kitty corner to Hollander, their knees knocking together. 

“Uh, yeah. You’re welcome.” 

Ilya busied himself with licking his cone, alternating between small tongue flicks and light bites of strawberry and honey. He didn’t try to be so sexual about it, but at the end of the day, there were only so many ways to eat an ice cream cone. 

He watched as Hollander put the tiniest amounts of his own (boring) dessert on his spoon, barely letting more than the tip of plastic past his lips. 

“Is good?”

“What?” Hollander bumbled out, his eyes flashing up to Ilya’s, his cheeks tinged almost as pink as Ilya’s ice cream. “Oh. Yeah. It’s good.”

“You like?” 

Hollander nodded, scooping a slightly larger bit of ice cream onto his spoon. “Yeah.” 

“Hm.” Ilya hummed before flattening his tongue against his own ice cream and giving it a long lick. “Try.” He said, holding his cone towards Hollander. 

“What? No. I’m good.” 

“Try.” Ilya insisted. 

Hollander’s eyes moved from the ice cream cone in Ilya’s hand to his eyes, his flush deepening further and making Ilya’s skin feel warm. 

Hesitantly, unsure, shyly, Ilya didn’t know, Hollander ducked his head and wrapped his lips around the top of Ilya’s ice cream cone, not a large bite by any means, but Ilya was entranced and hypnotized by the motion nonetheless.

Hollander moved his head away, just the tiniest of movement, and Ilya watched the tip of his tongue sneak out of his mouth and swipe at the corner of his lip. 

“More.” Ilya urged, his voice cloaked and raspy. 

Hollander took another hit, this time tongue forward and Ilya shifted in his chair. 

“Good?”

“Mm.” Hollander agreed, sitting back in his seat like he didn’t just unravel and rewrite Ilya’s entire brain. “I like it.”

“I want to try yours.” 

Hollander didn’t waste any time, scooping a much larger bite of ice cream onto his spoon before holding it towards Ilya to take. 

Ilya did reach for the spoon, not to take it from Hollander, but just to wrap his hand around his, his fingers curling around his fingers. He ducked his head down, his gaze zeroed in on Hollander’s, and brought the entirety of the spoon into his mouth, letting his tongue lave the bowl of the spoon, no drop of pistachio ice cream left behind. 

He hated the flavor. He loved the taste of Hollander. 

“Is good.” He said, letting his mouth drop the spoon. He pressed his knee harder against Hollander’s. 

“Yeah. It’s good.” Hollander nodded, and Ilya watched his Adams Apple bob as he swallowed heavily. He cleared his throat and his foot knocked against Ilya’s under the table. “Not as good as yours.” 

Ilya held his ice cream cone out to Hollander. “Share?” He asked and his body was electrified as Hollander leaned forward again and licked at Ilya’s cone again. 

Ilya wondered if Hollander shared Carter Vaughn’s ice cream like this. 

✶✶✶

Chapter End Notes

how many times can I write ice cream?

thank you for reading. 🍦

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

“Ah, no.” Ilya groaned, flexing his hips against Shane’s. “Is very good idea.”

Chapter Notes

✶✶✶

Shane was flustered. His skin felt tight and stretched over his bones and his heart was beating like it was competing in a triathlon. 

He wasn’t blind, he’d watched Rozanov’s tongue slip over his spoon, had felt the burn of his fingers over his hand—flipping on a switch that Shane had spent the better part of his adult life keeping off when it came to hockey and hockey adjacent situations. 

Rozanov was his teammate. There was no room for a fickle and brief dalliance. The team could suffer, would suffer, for his impulsiveness. 

But Shane couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his hand around Rozanov’s wrist, sticky with ice cream, and holding it in place while he took another swipe at strawberry honey with his tongue. He couldn’t help himself from noticing the way Rozanov’s eyes fell, half hooded, watching Shane eat ice cream he had no business sharing. 

His fingers tapped once, twice, against Rozanov’s hand before he moved away, again, and settling back in his chair. 

“I’m done.” He said, tongue curling over his teeth and wiping away any residual temptation on his lip. 

“Yes.” Hardly a word and more like a piece of wood, oaky and embered and glowing with a language entirely their own. “Me too.” 

Shane could have pointed out that between the two of them, they barely had finished two-thirds of the behemoth serving of his ice cream—Shane had abandoned pistachio in favor of the flavor of strawberry and Rozanov—but he was too busy watching him suck melted cream from his fingers. 

Fuck. 

Shane shifted in his seat, his knee brushing harder against his Rozanov’s, and he tried to will how interested his dick was in the visual before him. 

“We should, uh, head back. To the hotel.” 

“Mm, yes.” Roz hummed in agreement but made no move to stand. 

“Curfew…” Shane tried to explain. 

“Yes. Curfew.” He agreed. 

Shane wasn’t good at reading anything that wasn’t explicitly in front of him. He needed guidance through unspoken, unwritten intentions. He had always been this way, would always be this way, but in this one instance, with Rozanov’s knee burning Shane’s skin through layers of fabric, his thigh heavy against his, his hand still sticky and holding an ice cream cone that they’d both licked and ate like a preamble to something inevitable?

Shane didn’t need it spelled out. 

The walk back to the hotel was quiet, heavy with their arms brushing against each other at each swing of momentum. Shane’s veins thrummed with anticipation, longing and wanting he had long shelved to periods of time where hockey didn’t consume his every waking thought. 

This impulse, this desire, was always simmering on the back burner, stirred by men with names that fluttered away the moment Shane left a hotel room, their apartments— the ache in his chest and body satiated minutely until the next rendezvous. 

“Have you ever?” Rozanov asked as they stepped through the doors to the hotel. 

“Yeah.” Shane nudged his chin towards the stairwell on the opposite side of the lobby. 

The stairwell was dark, quiet in a way that felt precarious. Shane moved for the handrail but found himself pressed quickly against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Roz…” Shane murmured, his hands bunching at the fabric of his shirt.

“Ilya. Like this.” Rozan—Ilya—corrected quietly, his head dipping, the tip of his nose nuzzling against Shane’s. 

“Okay.” 

Shane’s hands tentatively placed themselves on Ilya’s hips, half bracing, half encouraging. His thumbs snuck under the fabric of the shirt, swirling soft little circles over the swath of skin above his waistband. 

Ilya’s mouth pressed against his, softer than Shane anticipated, slowly, his tongue slipping from his mouth and tasting the seam of Shane’s lips. 

His stomach dropped, tension curling low on his body as he tilted his head to the side, following Ilya’s lead and allowing his tongue into his mouth. Shane couldn’t stop the sound that slipped from his throat. He pulled at Ilya and Ilya slipped a knee between his legs and pinned him to the wall, pressing his chest against Shane’s and leaving no room between them. 

“This is such a bad idea.” Shane whispered before tucking his head in the crook of Ilya’s shoulder and sucking the flesh of his neck into his mouth. 

“Ah, no.” Ilya groaned, flexing his hips against Shane’s. “Is very good idea.” 

Ilya tipped his head back, crooking his forefinger under Shane’s chin and lifting his head so he could look into his eyes. “But is maybe not good idea here, yes?”

Shane nodded. “Yeah.”

Ilya swiped his thumb over the swell of Shane’s cheek. “What is your room number?”

“1410.”

Ilya kissed him again, roughly. “I will knock. Twenty minutes, yes?”

“Okay.” 

✶✶✶

Ilya watched Shane ascend the stairs, a temporary parting glance over his shoulder, a shy smile that curled around Ilya’s chest and settled deep in his bones. 

He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment before backtracking through the door, his hand patting at his pocket to confirm his wallet was still where he’d put it. He had no supplies for whatever could happen in Shane’s hotel room. 

Preseason wasn’t exactly the time to be prowling different cities for a hook up and he’d never actually thought that Shane Hollander would reciprocate the lust that was simmering in Ilya’s veins. 

He’d felt it first in Saskatchewan. 

Shane had been braver at seventeen than almost anyone Ilya had ever met. Seeking him out, a shy scold, a warm handshake, freckles, pink cheeks, an awkwarder second handshake. Warm fingers curling over Ilya’s wrist bone. 

A victory. See you at the draft. 

Never seen again. 

Until Sochi. Six years later. Older, no less awkward, somehow prettier in the years that had passed by as a whimsical memory in Ilya’s mind. 

Softer but more determined. A reacquaintance. 

A reawakening dotting Ilya’s senses of something he had forced himself to bury and ignore while at home in Russia. There was no space for things Ilya wanted deep in the pockets of his being, tucked away and sanded down until the edges no longer hurt there.

The walk to the pharmacy was quick and the cashier was just as disinterested in talking as Ilya was. The walk back to the hotel was somehow the longest five minutes of his life while simultaneously feeling like no time at all. 

He eyed the stairwell in contemplation before moving towards the elevator. He rocked on his feet as he watched the screen above the doors count down floors. 

Ilya felt like he was going to vibrate out of his body. 

“Roz!” Marlow called as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. “Carmel and I are gonna go grab a bite? Room service kinda sucked. You wanna come?”

“Ah,” he fumbled awkwardly, his hand tightening over the paper bag and sliding it just behind his leg. “I am going up.”

Carmichael swung his fist lightly against Ilya’s shoulder as Marlow and he stepped past him. “No big deal. See you in the morning, Roz.” 

“See you.” 

He blew his cheeks up with a held breath once he got into the elevator and pressed the button for Shane’s floor. 

Before Ilya could even raise his fist to knock on 1410’s door, it was swinging open and a fist was curled into the fabric of his shirt and he was dragged inside. His back was pinned to the wall inside of the doorway the moment the door snapped shut, and his mouth was being devoured by Shane. 

Ilya groaned, the pharmacy bag dropping from his hand so he could curl his fingers around Shane’s jaw, holding him in place as his tongue fought for control. 

“Mmph.” He hummed, pushing at Shane and walking him backwards towards the bed. “You were waiting?” He mumbled against Shane’s throat once he broke their kiss. 

“You took forfuckingever.” He complained, his head tilting backwards and allowing Ilya to lick a stripe down his throat. “Where did you go?”

Ilya snuck a hand up the back of Shane’s shirt, swiping his fingers over dimples he’d been craving to get his fingers on. “Store. I, ah, like to be prepared.” 

Shane blinked, his eyes falling back to Ilya’s face. “Fuck, Roz—Ilya—did anyone see you?”

“Mm, no.” Ilya thought maybe, maybe, about telling Shane that he’d run into Marlow and Carmichael in the elevator, but they had no reason to suspect he was going to their captain’s room to fuck him. “Is okay. Okay?”

He nodded. His eyes fell from Ilya’s, to his mouth, to his chest, to his cock, tenting obviously between them under his clothing. 

Ilya barely had a second to process what was happening before Shane was dropping to his knees and making quick, if awkward, movements to open the button and fly of his jeans. His breath whistled between his teeth when Shane wasted no time sucking the tip of his dick into his mouth, his tongue flat against his slit. Shane vibrated with a groan and Ilya couldn’t help the short thrust of his hips forward. 

“Fuck.” He moaned, sliding his hands into Shane’s hair and peering down at him. 

He stared at his cock disappearing into Shane’s mouth. It was obscene and filthy and when Shane returned Ilya’s glance from under his eyelashes, his cheeks flushed, his pace reverent, the wet, sloppy enthusiasm and enjoyment dripping from the corners of his mouth and slipping down his chin, Ilya felt like a deity being worshiped by the most loyal parishioner. 

“So good, Shane. Fuck. I, ah, yes, da, like that.” He crooned, his grip tightening against Shane’s scalp, his fingers pulling tautly at the roots of his hair. 

Ilya wasn’t sure he would last like this. He couldn’t find it in himself to move his eyes away from his cock disappearing into Shane’s mouth. His stomach tightened as his balls were cupped and rolled in Shane’s hand, his free one clasped around Ilya’s thigh, holding him in place. 

Like Ilya would want to be anywhere else but here. 

Except here was about to have him blowing his load in a nanosecond. 

“Stop, stop.” He urged Shane through a gargled moan as the head of his cock hit the back of his throat. 

“Bad?” Shane asked, releasing Ilya’s dick from his mouth with a soft grunt. 

“No, no. Too good.” Ilya’s hands dropped to Shane’s biceps, gripping tightly and tugging in back to his feet. “Too good, too much. I, ah, it has been while.” 

Shane kissed Ilya then, gripping the fabric of his shirt in his hands and tugging as he fell backwards onto his hotel bed. 

Ilya followed, his hands catching his weight so he wouldn’t crush him, or his dick, when he fell forwards. He settled after a moment, his dick pinned between his stomach and Shane’s, and slowly kissed him, his tongue sliding against perfect Canadian teeth and a tongue that tasted like his precome and spit. 

Shane was pliant beneath him, following Ilya’s lead, letting Ilya strip him of his shirt, raising his hips so Ilya could tug his joggers and boxers down to his knees. Ilya curled his fist into the neck of his own shirt, tearing it off quickly and tossing it behind him.

“Is okay?” Ilya asked against Shane’s throat as his fingers danced closer to Shane’s dick. 

“Fuck. Yes. It’s okay—fuck.” 

Shane threw his head back as Ilya’s hand curled around his cock, a grunt and moan spilling out, his eyes clenched shut and eyebrows furrowed. Ilya swiped his thumb over the bead of precome, smoothing it over the head of his cock and watched rapturously as Shane tugged his lower lip between his teeth and bit. 

“Is good?”

“Fuck, you know it is—“ Shane’s hips lifted from the bed, fucking into Ilya’s fist. “God, please.”

Ilya dropped his mouth to a pec, his teeth nipping at Shane’s nipple before he trailed wet, sloppy, tongue laden kisses down his stomach. “You want?”

Shane’s fingers buried themselves in Ilya’s hair, pushing curls away from his face but holding on for what felt like dear life. The slight snap of pain shot through his veins pleasantly. He let a hot gust of breath wash over Shane, a smug smirk curling his mouth as Shane jerked his hips upward at the sensation, searching for Ilya’s mouth. 

“I want, I want—Ilya. Fuck.” 

Ilya devoured Shane’s cock. His tongue tucked low into his jaw, lips curled over his teeth. He hummed as Shane hit the back of his throat, letting his tongue up and curling it against the underside of his cock. Shane babbled in-comprehensively, his hands twisting in Ilya’s hair as he rocked his body to get closer, deeper into Ilya’s throat. 

He’d always liked sucking cock. He enjoyed watching a man fall apart from his mouth, his hands. It was a power trip and something he didn’t get to experience very often. Continuing to live in Russia meant becoming famous in Russia and made fucking men wildly unsafe instead of just the bit of trouble it had been as a teenager. 

Sure, it wasn’t something that he was particularly eager to get out even now that he had an American visa, or maybe ever, but fuck, if Ilya didn’t want to spend a good amount of time sucking dick. 

One dick. 

Shane Hollander’s dick. 

Ilya thought maybe he was put on this earth to do two things: play hockey and fuck Shane Hollander. 

“Ilya, Ilya—I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck, fuck, shiiiiit…”

Ilya hummed again, the vibrations setting Shane off like a bottle rocket, come shooting down his throat like it was meant to be there. He languished there, his tongue slipping over his cock as aftershocks of his orgasm made Shane twitch in overstimulation. 

Ilya let his dick drop from his mouth with an exaggerated pop. A kiss to his navel, his sternum, before he pressed his mouth back to Shane’s and slipped his tongue into his mouth where Shane greedily licked it clean. 

“That was so fucking good. Jesus.” Shane mumbled, his fingers tightening against Ilya’s throat. 

“Ah, good. I thought I might be, ah, rust?”

“Rusty.” Shane corrected while he pushed against Ilya, forcing him onto his back. “It’s been a while?”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed, shifting his shoulders and fluffing the pillow under his head so he was propped up. He wanted to watch. “Is not safe for me in Russia. I am… too famous. Dangerous.” 

Shane bit at Ilya’s nipple as his hand found Ilya’s cock. “Can I?”

“I will literally die if you don’t, Shane.” 

Ilya felt Shane’s smile against his flesh. “Can’t have my left wing die on my watch.”

“Da, da.” He agreed, pushing good maturely at Shane’s shoulders. “Please suck my dick. Now. Please. Yes?”

“Yeah.”

Shane was really good, Ilya thought as his mouth hollowed out around Ilya’s cock. If he had half a mind left in his skull, he would be dismayed that he had learned this skill from someone else. Which was stupid and hypocritical of him when he’d fucked plenty of men over the years—never in Russia—after Sasha.

Women were easier to find, easier to sift through when the itch hit and he needed a release by something other than his own hand. But men were common enough in clubs around Europe, and while he visited the States with Sveta. 

He very much liked the men in Miami. 

But Shane was sucking his cock like he was trying to win the Stanley Cup for Cocksucking and Ilya’s body was somehow tense with the oncoming onslaught of his orgasm and jelly from the sheer deliriousness of it. Shane’s hand was twisting with a flick of his wrist, and his mouth was loud, alive with spit and Ilya’s precome. At some point, as he used a hand to steady himself over Ilya’s groin, he’d managed to press the pad of his thumb against his perineum which made Ilya let out a long, filthy sentence in Russian that would have made his ears turn red if there was any blood left in his body not in his cock. 

“Da, Shane, da. Yes. Fuck, I am—“ he tugged at Shane’s head, his hair gripping tightly in silky black hair, trying to get Shane to move off so he could—“coming! Fuuuccckkkk, Shane.” He groaned loudly as he came. 

Shane greedily swallowed like he’d never have the chance to do so again. 

Ilya planned on giving him so many more chances. 

Shane let him go, his tongue swiping a slow circle around the head which prompted Ilya’s hips to jerk against his will. He crawled back up Ilya’s body before he fell to the side, tucking his head against Ilya’s chest. 

Ilya didn’t think he had any bones left. His body was a sack of skin and jelly. “You killed me.” He grunted, shifting his arm under Shane and tucking him fully against his body, his hand curling up onto the crook of Shane’s shoulder and neck. He pressed a kiss against his temple before letting his head fall back into the pillow. 

“That was so hot.” Shane breathed. His breath was hot against Ilya’s skin. 

“You are winner for cocksucking. Gold medal.” 

“Does that mean you got silver?”

“Nyet, nyet. We are both gold medal. Is only fair, no?”

“Hm.” Shane hummed. 

They were quiet for a while, just the sounds of their breathing and the ticking of the alarm clock next to the hotel bed. Distantly, he could hear the thrum of the elevator and the mechanic scratch of the doors opening. 

“I’m not, like, out.” Shane said quietly. 

“No, me either.” 

“Um, like… some people know. But, like, it’s my parents. And Rose, obviously.” 

Ilya’s eyebrows furrowed. “Rose.” He said plainly. 

“Yeah. Landry. She’s an actress.”

Ilya knew exactly who Rose Landry was. “Ah.” 

“She’s really cool. You’d like her a lot, I think. She’s going to come to our first regular season game. You should meet her while she’s visiting.” 

Ilya felt the bones in his body suddenly reappear—reforming from jelly to marrow. “We will see.” 

Shane was still talking quietly but Ilya could only hear the ringing in his ears, his heart pumping wildly and adding whooshing to the ringing. He shifted again, reclaiming his arm out from under Shane. 

“I, ah, should go. We have early bus tomorrow.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Um… sorry we didn’t—“

“No, no. Was good. Was fun.” Ilya rolled off the bed with a light thump, his pants still awkwardly pooled around an ankle. He shimmied back into both legs and plucked his shirt from the floor, tugging it back on. “I will see you in the morning, Hollander.”

Shane blinked. “Okay. Um, goodnight, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, Hollander.”

He didn’t snatch the bag he dropped to the floor up as he left. He just let the hotel door click shut behind him. 

“Fuck.” 

✶✶✶

Chapter End Notes

hi, hi. thank you for your patience and thank you for reading.