Summary:

Shane doesn't even have to look up to know that Ilya is grinning, a feral, vicious thing as he knots his fingers in Shane's hair and tugs, just hard enough for Shane to let out a whine. The dull ache reverberates down his nerves, as he opens his mouth and pants, sucking down lungful after lungful of Ilya's sweat and musk, salt straight from his skin as he noses at the hem of his shirt.

“Is good, we won,” Ilya murmurs, stroking his hand through Shane's hair. “Have been wanting to show—have been wanting to give prize.” He pauses, and Shane knows his next words are going to be a cruel gift, a dagger of lust straight between his ribs. “And Hollander has been eager to show off, yes? Three goals,”—he whistles, low and mocking as Shane shifts at his feet, his ears burning as Ilya cups the back of his head, scratching blunt nails over his scalp—“is like he needed to prove how bad he wants.”

OR: Ottawa wins the Stanley Cup. Everyone gets a reward.