1 – 1 of 1 Work in Bliss_Ink
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Shane and Ilya are playing together in Ottawa. They're married. They're happy. But is it time for the next step? This starts one year after The Long Game book ends. Baby Games 1 year after Long Game “Why on earth are you smiling?” Shane wants to know as they head down the snow-covered Montreal street. His words form puffy white clouds that hang momentarily in the air between them. “And why couldn’t we take the team bus with everyone else?” The team is staying at the Four Seasons, like they do every time they play Montreal, and it’s close enough to walk to and from the arena. But the team still provides a bus to transport them the three short blocks. In spring months, many players walk it instead, but this is January, and it’s a nut-numbing minus twenty. “This weather reminds me of Regina,” Ilya says simply with what might be a shrug, but Shane is shivering too much to really be able to tell. His hair is still damp from his shower at the rink after the morning skate, and it’s starting to freeze at his neckline. Ilya’s words sink in, and suddenly Shane isn’t thinking about the cold. Their eyes meet. Ilya’s look incredibly blue in the bright white light reflecting off the snow. Ilya smiles. Shane does too. Then Ilya admits, “Makes me want to smoke.” Shane rolls his eyes. “You’re not allowed to smoke.” “Okay,” Ilya says flatly, like he did that day a million years ago before the World Juniors, and then he winks at his husband. “Hollander!” Someone yells from across the street so loudly that they hear it over the din of traffic moving across De La Montagne Street. Shane’s head swivels out of habit even though he knows better than to respond to anyone in Montreal. When his eyes find the middle-aged guy standing by the bus stop, Shane instinctively reaches out to touch Ilya’s arm. The guy had pulls off his gloves and throws both middle fingers high in the air. “Traitorous faggot!” Shane turns away and keeps his arm firmly on Ilya’s arm. He keeps walking up the street, head down, dragging Ilya by the sleeve on his navy peacoat. “Just ignore it.” “Is homophobia. Is not okay, Hollander!” Ilya’s English gets basic when he is pissed off or upset. Or drunk. And the last name thing also kicks back in. “Yeah. Fuck him,” Shane grumbles. “No, thank you,” Illya retorts, and a quick look shows his head is still turned and he’s glaring over his shoulder at the guy now a block away. “Okay. Well, then let’s get back to the hotel room, and you can fuck me instead,” Shane offers. “My dick will probably be frozen and fall off by then,” Ilya replies. “Why the fuck did I want to walk?” Shane almost smiles at that. Ilya finally stops looking back and falls in step beside his husband. And then he picks up the pace, with a hand on Shane’s lower back, pushing him to keep up. “Let’s get back so we can warm each other up.” No one shares rooms anymore due to the new player contract agreement, so Shane and Ilya have their own hotel rooms. It’s an unwritten rule that they are given connecting hotel rooms. They never ask for them, but they get them every time. Ilya has thought about telling his team’s travel coordinator there’s no need to waste money on two rooms connected or otherwise, but he has the feeling that the team and the league needed the pretense of it all. Pretense was what Shane called it anyway. Yuna called it other words like ridiculous and delusional. Ilya doesn’t give a shit. They could put them in one room, joining rooms or entirely different hotels on opposite ends of a city, he would still find a way to sleep in the same bed as Shane. When they get back to the hotel room, Ilya begins stripping off Shane’s layers in silence. First his scarf, then jacket, then hat. Ilya pauses to run his fingers through the damp ends of Shane’s dark, silky hair. They’re stiff, almost frozen. He brings his mouth to Shane’s. Shane’s lips are cold, but his tongue is warm and eager. Ilya will never get over how eager Shane is for every touch. It turns Ilya’s own desire up a notch every single time. It never gets old. “I hate playing here,” Ilya whispers into the kiss as he moves his mouth to Shane’s neck. “Everyone does. It’s Montreal,” Shane murmurs, his hands undoing the chunky buttons on Ilya’s coat. “They are ungrateful. You did so much for them.” Ilya complains as his hands make their way under the cable knit sweater Shane wore to the morning skate. Ilya had made fun of it when they were at breakfast. Told Shane it made him look like a dad in a bad holiday movie. The kind women watch on TV from November to January. But the truth is, he likes the idea of Shane being a dad, so he likes him looking like one. He just doesn’t know if he can tell Shane that… yet. “I know. It’s okay,” Shane replies, and then his breath hitches as Ilya’s hands – freezing cold – touch his skin just under his ribs and begin moving upward. “Not okay,” Ilya argues, and as soon as the sweater is up over Shane’s head, Ilya’s mouth is on one of his nipples, sucking and licking. “Not your fault,” Shane reminds him in a rough, breathy voice. Ilya knows Shane doesn’t blame him for the way he’d felt forced to leave the Metros, but Ilya blames Ilya.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 11,757
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Files:
- 1
- AO3:
- #77370806