1 – 1 of 1 Work in Boston Bears - Character
- Boston Bears - Character ×
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Hockey is a rough sport. Everyone knows that. You go down, you get back up. That’s the game. When Ilya Rozanov goes down on the ice, the Boston Bears are already moving to defend their captain. No one expects Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, to be the one who throws the first punch. Ilya Rozanov loved playing against Shane Hollander almost as much as he loved fucking him. Not that anyone in the arena would ever know that—not with the way Ilya drove Shane shoulder-first into the boards now. His weight crashed in behind him a moment later, pinning him there as the plexiglass shuddered from the impact. The vibration climbed all the way up Ilya’s arms and rattled against his teeth. Shane’s breath left him in a sharp burst of white, fogging across the glass where his visor pressed flush against it. His mouth fell open on a broken sound that never quite escaped, swallowed whole by the crowd as they surged to their feet, hungry and gleeful as they turned toward the collision. Ilya felt it anyway. Felt the way Shane’s body tensed first, instinct flaring hot and defensive, then yielded when recognition set in. When his body understood exactly who had him pinned to the boards. Ilya felt Shane’s spine arch, ribs expanding under the pressure of his forearm, a helpless, involuntary offering that sent something low and dangerous coiling tight in Ilya’s gut. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. Blades biting into the ice. Pads creaking beneath the fabric of their opposing jerseys—eighty-one and twenty-four. Shane was unyielding even when he was pinned, even when his weight subtly pressed back instead of away. Ilya stayed there a fraction too long. Long enough to memorize the exact moment Shane’s resistance softened without ever breaking. Long enough to feel the way Shane leaned into him, like a promise instead of a warning. Somewhere in the crowd, the cameras whined as they zoomed in, greedy to catch the moment for the viewers at home. In the booths, surrounded by those same unblinking lenses that caught every possible angle of the collision, Ilya knew the commentators had already leaned forward in their comfortable chairs. He knew they would already be dissecting yet another brutal meeting between the captains of the Montreal Voyageurs and the Boston Bears. “Oh—Rozanov’s been hunting that matchup all night,” one of the commentators said, delighted. “The captains of these two teams have a long history of rivalry on the ice. Hardly surprising to find them—” “It’s a clean hit,” the other commentator cut in. “Hollander’s not known for losing his head, but Rozanov has a way of getting under even the most level-headed guy’s skin. You can feel the tension every time these two share the ice—neither one of them ever backs down.” “Hell of a show they’re putting on for us tonight.” But on the ice, none of that mattered. The boards were bleeding cold through the layers of their padding, seeping into Shane’s shoulder, his ribs, his spine. Ilya could feel him shivering. The crowd was still on its feet, a wall of sound that blurred the edges of everything else, but the heat between them ignored it completely. Ilya’s body kept Shane pressed to the boards, unyielding even as helmets knocked together, cages scraping with a thin metallic rasp that felt far too intimate for how hard they were supposed to be hitting. It almost—almost—landed like a kiss when Shane twisted, trying to throw him off. Ilya felt every taut line of Shane’s body straining beneath him, muscles coiled and familiar in a way that loosened something dangerous in his chest even as they fought for possession over the puck. Ilya leaned in, just enough that Shane could feel his breath through the vents of his helmet. He smiled where only Shane could see it. “You skate slow today, captain,” he murmured, his accent thicker, softer. “Maybe tired from last night.” His grin turned sharp. “Should I take it easy on you?” Shane huffed a laugh that scraped out of him, rough and breathless. His shoulders shifted, instinctively angling closer even as the linesman started toward them. “Fuck off, Rozanov,” he muttered, dragging in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. The sound went straight through Ilya. And before he could stop himself, his gloved hand slid to Shane’s hip and squeezed—hard. Something reckless and private pressed into the narrow space between their pads and the noise and the regulation rules they both lived by. It shouldn’t have meant anything to anyone who noticed the touch lingered too long. It was for balance. It was instinct. A dozen excuses flared and died in Ilya’s head, because—fuck it—he wanted Shane closer. Wanted to lean in and kiss him stupid, right there against the glass. Wanted the world to finally understand what it was cheering for. Shane Hollander was his. Ilya knew his touch was too possessive. He knew he should probably pull back, create distance, or the illusion of it. But his fingers dug in harder instead, lingering too close to something that could never be explained away as incidental contact. Shane’s dark eyes snapped up, catching Ilya’s, sharp and furious and lit with something that made Ilya’s pulse stutter, like he’d misjudging a step and felt the drop a heartbeat too late. “Make me,” Ilya murmured, the words soft behind his grin. Then he slammed Shane back into the plexiglass again—just to feel it. The jolt. The way Shane’s body reacted before his pride could catch up. The involuntary sound punched out of him as their skates stuttered beneath them, blades biting and chattering against the ice as the puck bounced uselessly between their skates. Shane’s grunt slid low in his throat, a sound he only made when he was fighting for something he refused to lose. And all Ilya could think of—hot and unbidden—was last night. This exact angle. This exact body. This exact resistance that wasn’t resistance at all. Only it had been skin between them instead of gear. Hands instead of gloves. The heat of Shane’s breath breaking apart under him. The way Shane’s thighs had trembled as Ilya took his cock into his mouth. The way Shane had clung to him, arching into every thrust like he
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