Summary:

Ilya stands at the door of his hotel room, and he looks good. Really good. Shane feels his stomach dip and seize in that familiar twist. He’s used to it by now, the way his chest tightens like a band when he looks at Ilya. He can give it a name. He wishes he could give it more. “You watched my match?” “Bad tennis.” Ilya blows a raspberry. “I would have wrapped it up in hour and a half.” OR - Shane at the U.S. Open, desperate to beat Ilya, to claim world number one, and to make this thing between them something real. (it's a tennis AU!)