Summary:

"On the ice, he acted quick. Found the puck fast, moved to the net faster. Years of experience had honed his reflexes into second nature. But here, off the ice, wearing ROZANOV on his back like some doe-eyed puck bunny in the stands, his brain short-circuited completely." Or: Shane accidentally wears Ilya’s shirt into the locker room. “Oh.” Ilya rested his head back on the pillow, looking over at Shane. “So you are the asshole.” A wide smile stayed frozen on Shane’s face. He couldn’t help it. “No, it’s still you.” “No, it’s not me.” Ilya feigned offense, thumb stabbing toward Shane. “You’re the asshole.” He sat up an inch and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Everyone! Shane Hollander is an asshole!” Shane’s grin was starting to hurt his cheeks, his laughter coming easier than it had in months. He gave Ilya a playful shove, sending him tumbling back into the pillows. In an accent that had begun to fade, Ilya added, “I am feeling too good to lose tonight, anyway.” “Oh yeah?” Shane turned onto his side, propped on an elbow. “’Cause I’m feeling pretty good too.” “No shit,” Ilya murmured, sliding a hand beneath the sheets to squeeze Shane’s thigh, spurring an echo of pleasure that still clung to the edges of his mind. Sunlight soaked their bare chests, a rarity when their time together was usually isolated to late nights and unfamiliar hotel rooms. It felt better than Shane was willing to admit. Almost normal. The thought sobered him. In reality, they were both supposed to be on the ice in a few short hours. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, eyes widening. “Shit, Ilya. We’re late.” Ilya’s eyelids had gone heavy, an arm flung over his face. “Hm?” “I need to get back to my hotel for pickup,” Shane hissed, kicking the sheets aside. Behind him, Ilya groaned, long and dramatic. How he’d earned the captaincy with his complete indifference to punctuality baffled Shane. Then again, no one seemed to mind when he kept dragging Boston to victory night after night. It took effort not to marvel at him in those brief moments from the bench, the way he made it all look effortless. Their clothes lay in a heap by the bedroom door. He hadn’t even folded them. Shane scooped up half the pile and tossed it across the room, a pant leg smacking Ilya in the cheek. “Sorry.” “Liar,” Ilya groaned, expression pinched as he slipped free of the sheets and stretched, arms reaching overhead. Shane was already tugging on his sweats, shirt slung over his arm, when he caught sight of Ilya dangling off the edge of the mattress. Light brown curls stood in every direction, a faint sheen still clung to the dip of his spine, a wrinkle pressed into his skin. For a moment, panic gave way to something softer. There were few things he allowed to disrupt his routine, and Ilya had held the top spot since they were eighteen. Shane crossed the room in a few long strides, leaning in to press a firm kiss to his lips. “See you soon, Rozanov.” Ilya’s hand came up, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him closer, deepening it. "Stop trying to distract me,” he murmured against Ilya’s mouth. “Stop trying to leave,” Ilya countered, fingers twisting into Shane’s hair, tugging lightly. It was almost enough to convince Shane to crawl onto his lap and see how quickly they could fit in round two. Or was it three? Shane bit back a sigh. “Tonight?” Ilya’s jaw ticked. “Tonight.” The distance Shane was forced to put between them had grown harder to bear lately, recent confessions weaving new threads into place. He’d ask him soon, about the cottage. Two uninterrupted weeks, no deadlines, no schedules breathing down their necks. Ilya would probably say no. But what if he didn’t? “Go,” Ilya said at last, breaking the kiss. Part of Shane was grateful, because he wasn’t sure he had the willpower to do it himself. The absence of Ilya’s touch settled in immediately, a dull ache that followed him as he turned for the door. There was a mindset Shane liked to settle into before a game, and he was struggling to reach it. It was clouded, inevitably, by the memory of Ilya’s hands roaming over bare skin, teeth at his neck, the way he’d murmured filthy encouragement as they found their rhythm and slipped into Russian when they lost it. Maybe it was for the best that they didn’t make a habit of afternoon meetings. This was torture. Traffic was thick, and Shane tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes flicking to the clock again and again. Was time moving faster today? By the time he’d parked and sprinted up to his hotel room, there was barely enough time to pull on dress pants and shrug into a high-end suit jacket over a wrinkled shirt. It didn’t quite meet dress code, but he’d rather take the hit for that than further fuel Hayden’s theory that he’d been late because he was with a woman named Lily. A woman Shane had vehemently denied existed. His protests had sounded less convincing lately, and maybe he’d stopped caring if they did. Theriault waited outside the bus, and Shane was already apologizing before the coach could get a word in. “My bad, Coach.” “First for everything I suppose,” Theriault grunted, giving him a look that lingered somewhere between concern and curiosity. Shane was the captain. He was supposed to set