Summary:

The cocky curl of his lips was all the confirmation Shane needed. You really did time it, you fucker. Ilya’s decisive goal came two point six seconds before the end of the game. Not accidentally. He did it to spite the Montreal Metros. Shane most of all. It was cruel. Ilya Rozanov, with his Russian pride and mannerisms was cruel. Except for the times when he came to Shane’s hotel room. Or when Shane went to his. It was insane how Ilya always changed behind closed doors. How his smile turned genuine, how the weight of expectations lifted from his shoulders, and only the sweet lust remained, cradling Shane in its attentive arms. Ilya on the ice, wearing the colours of his team, and Ilya in the bedroom, wearing nothing, were two different people. TL;DR: Fuck toxic masculinity, everyone is allowed to cry!