Summary:

“But you should get tested, it’s important. I go every three months. Like the dentist. My dick is very healthy.” “Well…good, I guess.” Shane didn’t have a rebuttal. It was a good point actually. “Wait, you go to the dentist every three months? I thought it was supposed to be six?” “You cannot possibly be this boring, Hollander.” — Shane is tired, but he’s not missing a chance to see Ilya after a New York charity game. Canon compliant, deleted scene type short fluff. Shane wouldn’t miss a night with Ilya. He wouldn’t, and he wasn’t about to pretend he would. After all these years, he had made his peace with what his priorities were. He’d miss dinners, and parties, a movie premier (once), calling his mom, after game rituals, drinks with his teammates, well deserved ice-baths, and almost anything else (provided it didn’t effect his playing) for an hour with Rozanov. He wasn’t proud. But tonight… well he had missed about all of those. And Shane was frankly cranky. He had skipped lunch because, well. He had preferences for how he liked sex and hadn’t seen Rozanov in more than two months. Then he had played a brutal game against the Bears. It was a skirmish, for charity, so it shouldn’t matter but he hated the blood boiling feeling of watching Ilya across the ice, seemingly unphased by seeing him, crooked smile coming as easy as ever. He hated the taste of copper in his mouth as he took a bad fall in the fourth quarter. His hamstring hurt. His knee hurt. His ass hurt, and not in the fun way. He had watched his teammates commit to huge pasta dinners and he watched them go with more than a twinge of jealousy that came directly from his stomach. He took a shower, and he found himself fantasizing both about Ilya (a familiar kind of shame) and the take-out he was going to smash after (brand new.) He had basically stormed through Rozanov’s hotel room door about an hour ago. His hair was still damp from his after game shower. He thought he even registered a look of surprise on Rozanov’s face before slamming into him, and then slamming into the couch, all things hard and fast and crashing. He vaguely noted that this room wasn’t up to Ilya’s standards, maybe he had booked a second room just to fuck in. Fine. “Holla-oof,” Rozanov had greeted him, before being cut off by Shane basically tossing him against the flimsy Hilton wall. He looked as delicious as ever, Shane noted with more than a bit of envy and annoyance,he had also clearly just showered with low slung joggers and a black T-shirt Shane thought he must get tailored to cling to his biceps just so like that. Ilya had responded to his violence in kind, strong hands gripping Shane and lifting him off the ground, slamming him onto the hotel couch in a way that felt unstructurally sound. Shane bit his lip. “Out for revenge for your loss, Hollander? I can show you some moves, if you’re looking for a mentor.” Ilya had quipped, making quick work of Shane’s jeans. Shane didn’t have time for this, he grabbed him by the nape of his neck, pulling him down. Somewhere under the primal taking and shoving and kissing with teeth Shane felt a deep gratitude that Rozanov seemed fine with anything he threw at him. On the ice it was like he could read his mind in the worst way, blocking him, always one step ahead, one millimeter closer, but here Shane felt greedy for it. He pushed and Ilya was there to catch him. He bit and Ilya bit back, He didn’t need to explain, say “I want it rough tonight,” he didn’t need to say anything. It was choreography. It was a play. Rozanov knew his positions so well. Shane thought he was going to get exactly what he wanted, Rozanov, hard and fast and with minimal posible quips, until about 15 minutes ago when he had his leg hauled up on Rozanov’s shoulder, everything slicked and aligned and perfect and- “Wait,” Shane had said, reluctantly, “stop.” His leg was killing him, throbbing pains shooting through the muscle of his thigh. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered how instantly Ilya stopped, no comments, no hesitation. Shane had been with girls who needed to be stopped five, six times before they got the hint. He wondered if this meant he had literally never stopped Rozanov before, and surmised that probably he was mostly saying “yes yes please” with every cell in his body instead. “Not good?” Ilya asked, sliding his hand from under Shane’s ass up his leg to his ankle, which rested on Ilya’s shoulder. “No,” winced Shane, “it’s uh, god it’s really good-“ Ilya smirked, Shane scowled, “My hamstring, I think I sprained it tonight.” Recognition flooded Rozanov’s face, and if he would allow himself the luxury of imagining it, Shane thought he saw a smidge of relief there too. Ilya surveyed him, laid out beneath him, raw and hard and breathless, and ran his hand up his inner thigh with a practiced ease. “Here?” He asked, rubbing his thumb down the tight muscle. Shane shivered, winced. “Yeah, but I could, turn - “ But Ilya was already moving away from him, perfect naked ass lit by the mediocre hotel lamps. “You need ice.” He called over his shoulder, “This terrible hotel is for business meetings. It has a fridge.” Shane blinked taking in the suite for the first time. It did look like a business hotel, they had crash landed on the living room portion but there was a small fridge where Ilya was heading, with a hot plate and a sad looking Mr. Coffee. “I don’t want ice,” Shane called, reaching for a forgotten couch pillow to cover his erection. Damn Ilya for seeming perfectly at ease this naked, coming back holding an ice pack and his cigarettes, dropping both on the hotel coffee table. He stole the pillow out of Shane’s hands and spread his legs. Shane could feel himself blushing. “You’re in a bad mood, Shane Hollander.” Ilya told him dryly as he gingerly moved Shane’s dick away from the cold and pressed the ice pack just right into Shane’s thigh. It actually felt much better, Shane could feel himself unclench. Ilya reached for his cigarettes but struggled stupidly trying to light them and still hold the ice pack against Shane’s thigh. Shane sighed, took his lighter, lit it for him. Ilya looked sincerely delighted by this, like he might even laugh. Shane scowled deeper. “What has crawled up your ass?” Rozanov asked, moving his leg to stretch it out in just the way you were always taught in sports medicine.