Summary:

“The thing is,” Ilya says, conversationally, as if he doesn't have fucking Shane Hollander grinding into his touch, as if he doesn't have a hand on his—Luca's sure of it—perfect fucking cock, “you have not been subtle, Haasy.”

It takes Luca a moment to understand just what the hell Ilya's talking about, before he moans, low in his throat, humiliation sweeping across his body. It's not that he thought he had been actually subtle, but he hadn't expected this, of all places, to be where they confronted him. Not with Ilya's hand worming its way into Shane's pants, the soft blue of his briefs a flash color amongst the pale glow of his skin and the dark drape of his clothes.

OR: The Cens have won the Stanley Cup. Luca's been voted Hollanov's MVP.