Chapter Text
Shane Hollander prided himself on his focus. On the ice, he could track a puck moving a hundred kilometers an hour through a mess of sticks and bodies. But apparently, put Ilya Rozanov in a tank top ten feet away doing pull-ups, and his focus disintegrated faster than a snowflake in July.
He wasn’t even being that obvious. At least, that’s what he told himself. He was just—observing. Appreciating. Scientifically studying the definition in Ilya’s biceps as they flexed and stretched under the harsh fluorescent lights of the team gym. That was perfectly normal. Perfectly heterosexual behavior. Perfectly—
“Stop staring at my ass, Hollander.”
Shane nearly dropped his water bottle. “What? I’m not—”
Ilya dropped from the pull-up bar, sweat glistening on his forearms. He turned around slowly, like a cat who knew exactly how much power he held over a room. “You were. Don’t deny. I could feel your eyes. Very warm. Like lasers.”
“Your ass was in my field of vision,” Shane said, defensively. “What was I supposed to do, close my eyes while you’re working out?”
“Yes,” Ilya said, deadpan. “Or stare at wall. Or at weights. Or at anything that is not me.”
Shane grabbed his towel and threw it at him. “You’re insufferable.”
Ilya caught the towel one-handed, smirking. “You like me insufferable.”
Shane tried very hard not to smile. “I tolerate you.”
“Ah, yes.” Ilya walked closer, lowering his voice just enough so the other guys on the far side of the gym wouldn’t hear. “You tolerate me very loudly, every night.”
Shane’s face went nuclear. “You—shut up.”
Ilya chuckled, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You make it too easy, solnishko.”
“Don’t call me that here,” Shane hissed, glancing around. No one seemed to be paying attention. Still, the idea of anyone overhearing made his skin prickle. It was too risky, too exposed. The gym was their worst place for this—public, filled with teammates, and nowhere to hide behind jokes or game talk.
Ilya, of course, didn’t look remotely concerned. He leaned against a bench press, towel slung around his neck, pure picture of confidence. “What? It means sunshine. I am being affectionate.”
“In Russian,” Shane said. “Which means no one knows what it means except you.”
“Exactly,” Ilya said with a grin. “Secret affection. You like it.”
Shane rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously handsome, yes.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Also true.”
They went back to their respective workouts—Shane trying, and failing, not to sneak another glance. But really, could anyone blame him? Ilya’s back was a work of art. Broad, sculpted, every muscle visible through his shirt. It was a problem. A recurring, daily, drive-him-to-distraction kind of problem.
He was doing his best to focus on his reps when a voice murmured behind him.
“You are staring again.”
Shane jumped so hard he almost dropped the dumbbell. “Jesus, Ilya—do you move silently on purpose?”
“Yes,” Ilya said, not even pretending otherwise. “Helps me sneak up on nosy reporters. And distracted Canadians.”
“I wasn’t distracted.”
“Mm-hm.” Ilya reached over, placing a large, warm hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Form is bad. You will hurt yourself.”
“I know how to lift, Rozanov.”
“Apparently not,” Ilya said, stepping in close enough that Shane could feel his breath against his ear. “You keep your elbows too wide. Here, let me show—”
“Ilya,” Shane warned under his breath, eyes darting toward the mirrors. “People will—”
“Relax,” Ilya said softly. “I am only coaching teammate. Very professional.”
He adjusted Shane’s grip, guiding his movements with slow precision. To anyone else, it looked harmless. Just two players running through proper form. But Shane could feel it—the warmth of Ilya’s skin, the press of his chest against Shane’s back, the electric current that zinged through every nerve ending.
“Better,” Ilya murmured. “You see? You listen to me, you improve.”
“You’re a menace,” Shane muttered, voice tight.
“Maybe,” Ilya said. “But you like when I teach you things.”
Shane managed a shaky exhale. “Training can’t end fast enough.”
Ilya laughed quietly and stepped back, leaving him both relieved and instantly missing the contact. “Patience, Hollander. We still have skating drills.”
“Fantastic,” Shane said. “My favorite.”
By the time practice finally wrapped up, Shane’s muscles were screaming and his patience was threadbare. He’d spent the entire session trying not to look like a man in love with his supposed rival. Ilya, on the other hand, seemed immune to shame or restraint. Every time Shane’s gaze flicked up, Ilya was already watching him—with that stupid, knowing smirk.
When they finally got into the locker room, Shane thought he’d made it. Just a quick shower, some polite goodbyes, and freedom.
Then Ilya leaned close as they walked out, his voice low and teasing.
“Still thinking about my ass?”
Shane groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
“You already said that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
They reached the parking lot, night air crisp against their skin. Their cars were parked a few spaces apart—because heaven forbid anyone notice them arriving or leaving together too often. The rules of secrecy were exhausting, but necessary. For now.
Shane hesitated, glancing around. No one in sight.
Ilya must have read his mind. “Come,” he said quietly, nodding toward Shane’s car. “You drive. We go home.”
The word home hit Shane square in the chest. Home. Not my place, not your place. Just… theirs.
They didn’t talk much on the drive. They didn’t need to. The tension that had been simmering all day shifted into something warmer, calmer. By the time they reached their apartment, Shane felt the weight of the world slide off his shoulders.
Inside, doors locked and blinds closed, Ilya immediately dropped his gym bag and wrapped his arms around Shane from behind. “Better,” he murmured.
Shane leaned back into him, finally letting himself breathe. “Much.”
“I told you. You worry too much.”
“Someone has to,” Shane said, turning around in his arms. “You’d probably flirt with the Zamboni driver if I didn’t stop you.”
“I only flirt with one person,” Ilya said, grinning down at him.
“Uh-huh. You flirt with everyone.”
“Maybe,” Ilya said, brushing a kiss against his temple. “But I only mean it with you.”
Shane smiled, eyes soft. “That’s disgustingly sweet.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Loudly,” Ilya murmured.
Shane laughed, pushing him lightly toward the couch. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly charming.”
“Impossibly annoying.”
“Impossibly yours,” Ilya said.
That shut him up—at least for a moment. Because when Ilya looked at him like that—soft, teasing, full of affection—Shane forgot about gym floors and teammates and pretending. He forgot everything except this. The quiet, the laughter, the space where they didn’t have to hide.
“Fine,” Shane said, finally smiling. “But next time, you’re the one who gets caught staring.”
Ilya’s grin was slow and smug. “Oh, I never get caught.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Shane leaned in, close enough that his words brushed against Ilya’s lips. “Game on.”