Chapter Text
February 2004– Moscow
Ilya Rozanov was thirteen years old when he got his words.
He'd heard about soulmates his entire life. At some point in their life, everyone got their words. They were a record of the first thing your soulmate would say to you, written in their handwriting. Nothing about the system was predictable. Some people were born with their mark, others didn't get them until they were in their forties or later. The only constant was that they appeared before you met your soulmate.
Like every other child, Ilya had dreamed of his soulmate. He'd wondered who they would be and what they would be like. He'd wondered if his bond would be romantic or platonic. His mother had told him the stories with a smile, tucking him into bed and kissing him on the forehead. She'd told him tales of star-crossed lovers working out in the end and of people who would do anything for their soulmate. Her favorite had always been a Greek legend of how everyone was originally two beings in one body, and the split was how soulmates were created. Ilya could recite the entire myth backwards if asked.
"Your soulmate is your other half." She'd told him countless times, running a hand over the spot on his wrist where his words would appear. "When you find them, you'll feel complete."
Ilya had believed her. He would have believed anything that she told him. Even as his father pushed him away from idealism and towards hockey, he'd kept his dreams of having a soulmate. His father could wreck the majority of Ilya's dreams, but he couldn't ruin that image of finding that person who was right for him. Ilya wouldn't let him.
Then, his mother died and most of Ilya's dreams died with her. His thoughts about soulmates were replaced by hockey. Any time someone asked if he'd gotten his words, he joked that hockey was his soulmate. He was pretty sure that was the truth anyway. No person would live up to the adrenaline high he got from being on the ice.
Still, his words appeared. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it happened. His wrist was blank when he'd pulled his gloves on before practice. When he took them off hours later after being forced off the ice by the rink staff, there was a sentence etched onto his skin.
You're supposed to smoke over there.
Ilya ran his finger over them, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar symbols. He knew enough to know that it was probably English. The handwriting was neat. Even without comprehending a single word, he could tell that. Now, he knew two things about his soulmate that he hadn't before. They were not Russian– or at least, they would probably not be in Russia when they met for the first time– and they had nice handwriting.
The sun had set long ago. His teammates had left when practice ended. Ilya, like always, had stayed for as long as they would let him. He was still young, but everyone knew that he was destined for greatness. Barring the worst possible scenario, he was going to be drafted to a professional team in 2009. Soon, he'd be expected to make a choice between staying in Russia and going to North America to play in the NHL.
His father was waiting in the parking lot for him. When Ilya climbed into the car, he was frowning. "You're late."
"Sorry. They gave me more time than usual tonight."
"I do not want to wait." His father didn't even look at him as he pulled out of the parking spot. "You are going to walk from now on."
It was futile to argue. Bringing up the brutal cold or the three mile walk would just make him angrier. All Ilya could do is hope that he would forget about this tomorrow. "Yes, sir."
The rest of the car ride was silent. Ilya leaned away from his father and lifted his sleeve up to look down at his words again. If he stayed in Russia, he probably would never meet his soulmate. He could probably count the times he'd heard English in person on one hand. He could live his life without ever having to worry about hearing his words.
Ilya's chest filled with dread at the idea of that. Having a soulmate was troublesome, but the thought of never meeting them was horrific. In that moment, without even understanding the sentence on his wrist, Ilya knew that he had no other choice.
He was going to the NHL.
April 2004– Ottawa
Shane hated his words. It had been a depressing realization to come to. Having a soulmate was his dream. His parents were basically the blueprint. College sweethearts who had adorable words. Shane had built up his entire life around the idea of replicating that. Every day, for as long as he could remember, he'd checked his wrist for his words immediately after waking up. He'd come up with a thousand different options for what his words would say. In every single one, they'd been just as perfect as his theoretical soulmate.
It had all come crashing down two months ago when Shane had woken up and looked down at his wrist. He'd had about a minute of excitement before he managed to read the messy handwriting and process exactly what was forever inked onto his skin.
Fucks sake, Hollander.
The words themselves were bad enough, but the fact that his soulmate was calling him Hollander was absolutely terrifying. Only other hockey players called Shane by his last name. The implications of that… Shane couldn't think about it for more than a few seconds without panic rising in his chest.
His parents had been thrilled when they found out he got his words. They still were. Shane was pretty sure they would have been thrilled no matter what the words said. They were optimists. Decades of being happy with your own soulmate did that to you. They couldn't understand why Shane was apprehensive, and Shane couldn't make himself say his fears out loud. That would make them real.
So, he pushed everything down and kept moving. He convinced himself he didn't need his soulmate. He had hockey. Hockey was pretty much his entire life at this point anyway. He was the best, and everyone knew it. Nobody around him even compared. If everything went well, he'd be registering for the NHL draft in five years. When he made it, he wouldn't have time for another person until he retired. It would be fucked up of him to expect someone to play second fiddle to a sport.
His parents told him he was too young to be thinking like that. They never doubted him when he said he was going to be in the NHL, but they did think that he put too much pressure on himself. They didn't understand that the pressure was what kept him thriving. Soon, he would be on the junior national team. In 2009, he would be drafted and his life would truly begin. He'd finally have some real competition.
Still, even as he tried not to think about them, his words bothered him. They were impossible to avoid. Every time he moved his arm, he was reminded that someone with terrible handwriting who called him Hollander was his soulmate.
The worst part of the whole thing is that whenever Shane forgot to be terrified, he was actually hopeful. He had his words. He was going to meet his soulmate.
Eventually.
December 2008– Regina
Canada was underwhelming. It was not much different from Russia, in theory. There wasn't much to focus on outside of the cold and hockey. Both things Ilya was very familiar with.
He'd never been somewhere as far as North America before. Some of his teammates spoke about missing home or their parents. They couldn't wait to get back. Ilya was experiencing whatever the opposite of that was. The idea of going back to Russia– to his father– was suffocating. He would never go back if he could.
Team practices had just ended. Ilya was freshly showered, wrapped in his Team Russia parka, with a bottle of Coke in one pocket and a carton of cigarettes in the other. He was pressed against the brick wall of the practice rink. His hands shook from the cold as he lit up.
This was familiar. The bitter cold, the acrid smoke, the lingering adrenaline from practice. It was what made Ilya feel alive.
"You're supposed to smoke over there," someone said.
Ilya almost dropped his cigarette. His English was shitty, but he had studied that sentence enough times over the years to understand it immediately. He didn't even think about his words much anymore– hell, he kept them covered up with a plaster half the time– but it was impossible to avoid them.
He turned his head instinctively, and was face to face with Shane fucking Hollander.
Despite being the two most talked about prospects in the world, Ilya had never met Shane Hollander. He'd seen countless pictures, but they didn't do him justice. Shane Hollander was distractingly gorgeous. His skin was freckled and beautiful. Ilya was so taken by him that he almost forgot Shane had said his words.
Out of almost seven billion people, of course Ilya's soulmate had to be his fated rival. It was almost poetic. Still, Ilya had enough sense to realize just how bad this was. He couldn't…
Hollander was looking at him, clearly expecting an answer. Ilya couldn't give one. He knew that whatever he said next would change both of their lives and potentially ruin their careers. Realistically, they'd both have to ignore the bond until they retired. Ilya could live with that, but he wasn't willing to count on Hollander not to do something stupid.
"I wanted to meet you." Shane held his hand out, ignoring Ilya's awkward silence. "I'm Shane Hollander."
Ilya stubbed out his cigarette, turned on his heel, and walked away before he spoke and let both of them make a terrible mistake.
Shane blinked at the empty space in front of him. Rozanov had stood there just seconds ago. Shane had wanted to finally meet him, to size him up and figure out what kind of person he was. He supposed he got the answer to that question.
Later, in the car, Shane told his parents that he had tried to talk to Ilya Rozanov.
"What's he like?" His mom asked, turning in her seat to look back at Shane.
Shane shrugged. "Kind of a dick."
June 2009– Los Angeles
"Shane, could you move a little closer to Ilya, please?"
Ilya could feel Shane's hesitance as he stepped closer. Their arms brushed. It took everything in Ilya not to react.
He'd spent the last six months practically obsessed with Shane Hollander. (His soulmate. Not that he'd ever let anyone know that– especially not Hollander.) It was an entirely professional obsession, of course. They had a lot in common, actually. He was the only hockey player on the same level as Ilya. The more he'd learned about Hollander, the more dangerous he'd become. Ilya actually wanted him. That was the worst part. He'd convinced himself that he'd never get to have Hollander– that he could never even speak to him– only to turn around and keep fucking wanting him.
The look on Hollander's face when Ilya had beaten him at World Junior's was the same look he'd had when Ilya had been drafted number one. It made Ilya feel more alive than he'd felt in years.
They were drafted to rivaling teams. Because their fucking souls being intertwined wasn't enough, their careers had to be as well. He would never be able to escape Shane Hollander.
"Congratulations." Shane said, once the cameras had finally stopped, because of course he was polite. He held out his hand to Ilya.
Ilya knew that he couldn't say anything. He could never say anything to him. Especially not right now, in front of basically the entire NHL. He wouldn't overshadow their accomplishments by revealing that they were soulmates. So, he just patted Hollander on the shoulder.
Hollander flinched, like Ilya's hand burned him. He opened his mouth, but Ilya was getting dragged away from him before he could speak again. When he looked back, Hollander was gone. He didn't see him again for the rest of the night.
Shane couldn't fucking sleep. It had been a fucking day. He had finally been drafted into the NHL. He had gotten what he'd worked his entire life for. He had spent the last however many hours talking to person after person. He was fucking exhausted. But he couldn't sleep.
His mind wouldn't quiet down. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what was bothering him. After over an hour of tossing and turning, Shane rolled out of bed and put some sweats and his sneakers on. If he wasn't going to sleep, he figured he might as well be productive with his time.
The hotel gym was empty when Shane got down there. He stepped onto one of the two treadmills and gave his mind something to focus on besides his nameless anxiety.
He didn't notice that another person had entered the gym until Ilya Rozanov stepped onto the treadmill next to him. Rozanov gave him a quick nod– more acknowledgment than Shane had ever gotten from him– and started up his machine. Shane tried to ignore him. Rozanov probably just couldn't sleep. Or he always hit the gym this late. Or maybe he was having jet lag. Or maybe…
Rozanov increased the speed. He didn't look at Shane, but Shane was just petty and competitive enough to increase his machine to be just a little faster than Rozanov's. Within a minute, Rozanov increased his speed again, silently waiting for Shane to match it. Which he did. Obviously.
Shane glanced over and saw a slight smirk on Rozanov's face. Shane bit the inside of his cheek to keep his own smile in check.
They kept increasing the speed, testing the limits of their bodies and the machines. Shane's entire body was burning in protest, but he was determined to beat Rozanov. He smoked, for fucks sake. Shane could definitely beat him.
Only, he showed no signs of stopping.
Shane only lasted another minute before he was sure his legs were going to give out underneath him. He hit the emergency stop button, stumbling off the machine and collapsing on the floor. Rozanov ran for about ten more seconds before he bailed, breathing heavy and chuckling as he sat directly across from Shane. Their legs were both sprawled out in front of them. Rozanov's sneakers were almost touching Shane's ankle.
Rozanov ran a hand through his damp hair and squirted water into his mouth from the bottle. The move was a lot more interesting to Shane than it should have been. He quickly looked at the floor, hoping the flush from the exercise was enough to cover his blushing. Shane was suddenly very aware that he was incredibly thirsty and had not brought his own water.
Wordlessly, Rozanov held out his bottle. Shane shook his head, refusing to let Rozanov one-up him yet again. Or, at the very least, he wanted Rozanov to actually speak to him for once.
Instead of opening his mouth, Rozanov just tossed the bottle at Shane's head. Shane caught it right before it hit him in the face.
"Dude." Shane huffed. Still, he drank the water. Apparently, hydration mattered more to Shane than his pride.
When he'd had his fill, he held the bottle out for Rozanov to take. Their fingers touched as it changed hands.
For the first time in his life, Shane felt it. His stomach swooped, and he felt like he was about to vibrate out of his skin. His heartbeat quickened, practically pounding in his chest. He was almost 100% certain that Rozanov could hear it. Still, if even just a brush of their hands could make Shane feel like this…
"We're going to be seeing a lot of each other." Shane said quickly. Awkwardly. "Boston and Montreal play each other quite a bit."
Rozanov nodded. His eyes were focused on Shane's lips. For a moment, Shane was pretty sure that Rozanov was going to lean forward and kiss him. For a moment, Shane was pretty sure he would let him.
"Anyways. I'm– uh. Going to bed. See you around."
Shane didn't wait to see if Rozanov was going to respond. He scrambled to his feet and left the room as fast as he could without literally running. He waited until the door to his room was safely shut before he collapsed back to the floor and let himself freak the fuck out.
What the fuck.
Somehow, just by sharing his water and looking at Shane, Rozanov had gotten him half-hard. Shane wished that he understood his own body. Rozanov still hadn't said a word to him. He'd barely even touched him. Besides, he was a fucking asshole. What the fuck was wrong with Shane?
He couldn't explain his own thought process. But, he could get in the shower and get himself off, desperately trying to think about literally any girl. Anything but hazel eyes and dark stubble and muscular arms…
For the rest of his life, Shane would have to live with the fact that he had ended his NHL draft day getting himself off in the shower to the thought of Ilya Rozanov.
July 2010– Toronto
No matter how hard he tried, Ilya could not escape Shane Hollander. He was a constant topic of conversation around Ilya. If he wasn't seeing Hollander's face on his TV, people were talking about him. Every time Ilya saw his face or heard his name, he was back on the floor of that hotel gym. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the blush on Hollander's freckled cheeks, and the way that he reacted to Ilya's presence.
Hollander was dangerous. Ilya knew that he had to keep his distance. He wanted to keep his distance. It was bad enough that Hollander occupied every part of his mind not already taken over by hockey, but he had to keep fucking seeing him. He'd thought that he'd be safe since they were signed to two different teams. A 300 mile buffer still wasn't enough. Of course they had to have the same sponsorship deal. Of course they had to film a commercial together.
He was already on the rink when Ilya got out of hair and makeup. He was gliding on the ice like he belonged there. Ilya was obviously an amazing skater– he was definitely better than Hollander– but he was messy. Hockey players often were. Hollander wasn't. He was graceful. There was no other way to describe it.
Ilya swallowed. This was going to be a long shoot.
Hollander did one more lap before skating over to the bench. Ilya wanted to go up and talk to him, but he knew that he couldn't. The makeup and the dramatic lighting made Hollander look so fucking pretty. Ilya heard people chirp Hollander during games by calling him "pretty boy" before, but it really was the truth. He was pretty sure that he could spend the rest of his life looking at Hollander, and he'd still leave Ilya breathless.
Finally, the director called them onto the ice. The photoshoot was long. It was a lot of standing and holding hockey sticks. Very boring. Most of the shots were solo, but the last one was of them bent over in front of each other, holding the faceoff position. Their faces were inches apart.
"Try not to laugh, fellas, I know it'll be challenging." The director said. Laughter was the last thing on Ilya's mind right now. He had to make a conscious effort to maintain eye contact. It was especially difficult, because Hollander's eyes kept flicking down to Ilya's lips. Which was interesting.
"A little more intensity in your eyes, if you could Shane."
Hollander blinked, like he'd forgotten he was in the middle of a photoshoot. He stared Ilya down, but he was only able to keep the intense expression for about a minute. Ilya was having some difficulty himself. A real faceoff was only a few seconds. Holding the position and the expressions was awkward.
Ilya was so uncomfortable that he couldn't keep himself from laughing. Hollander cracked almost immediately, chuckling along with him.
"Just a few more seconds, guys. Please."
"Sorry." Ilya said to the director. Hollander's eyes widened slightly as he spoke. For a moment, Ilya was worried that counted as talking to him, that he'd just said Hollander's words and his entire plan was about to come crashing down in the middle of this fucking photoshoot. But Hollander schooled his face back into the fake-serious expression. It was so ridiculous that Ilya couldn't keep himself from laughing again.
The director sighed. "We've probably got enough anyway. Let's take a break and then we'll do the film footage."
"That was your fault." Hollander said immediately. Ilya just bumped him with his shoulder and skated away.
The rink's communal shower was somehow worse than normal. It was dingy and small. The rows of showers facing each other on each wall were just a bit too close together. Shane undressed as quickly as possible and cut the shower on, stepping under the spray before it had warmed up. He was trying to get in and out as fast as possible to avoid Rozanov.
Of course, Rozanov walked in right after him and picked the showerhead directly across from him. Because he was an asshole.
Shane looked at the floor. He couldn't let his eyes linger on Rozanov's bear tattoo or his gold crucifix. He'd showered with hundreds of guys in his life, and he knew the etiquette. Looking was absolutely unthinkable.
But Shane was thinking it. He was really fucking thinking it. He glanced up, and stared helplessly at Rozanov's muscular back. His eyes trailed across his wide shoulders, over his waist, and down to his fucking perfect ass. Shane couldn't stop looking. He was bewitched. And aroused. Very visibly aroused. In the shower. With Ilya Rozanov.
Then, Rozanov was turning around and Shane only had enough time to look down at his half-hard dick with horror. Rozanov glanced at his crotch and raised an eyebrow.
"Fuck off." Shane said, helplessly. "It's nothing."
Rozanov didn't say anything. Of course he didn't say anything. He never spoke to Shane. He spoke around Shane, but never directly to him. Shane could only assume it was some superiority complex thing.
Shane should have just left the showers. This was fucking torture. But then, Rozanov was grinning at him in a way that was absolutely not helping Shane's little problem and Shane was transfixed. He couldn't move. All he could do was stare at Rozanov and wait for him to say something or leave or punch Shane in the face.
He didn't do any of that. He just stared back, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on Shane. His eyes were full of intensity, more heated than anything Shane had seen before. He was so busy being mortified that he didn't realize that Rozanov's dick was getting hard as well.
"What the fuck." Shane whispered, unable to tear his eyes away. This was fucking insane. Shane needed to leave. He was losing his mind very quickly. All the blood in his brain was draining right into his dick.
Rozanov let a hand trail down his stomach, and wrapped it around his cock. Shane gasped as he slowly stroked himself.
He didn't fucking get this guy. Here he was, jerking off in the shower in front of Shane but still refusing to say a word to him.
"Are you going to say something?" Shane asked.
For a moment, Rozanov's cool exterior crumbled. He looked sad and vulnerable. Shane thought maybe he'd finally gotten through to him.
Then, Rozanov was stepping forward and pressing his lips against Shane's.
Oh.
Shane's knees felt weak. For a moment, he was too shocked to do anything but stand there and let Rozanov kiss him.
He must have been still for too long, because Rozanov started to pull away. Shane's hands had been hanging limp at his side, so he grabbed the back of Rozanov's head, pulled him in again, and kissed him back.
Shane had never felt like this before. He knew this was a bad idea– they were in public– but his brain was broken. At that moment, all Shane could think about was the cool tile against his back and the feeling of Rozanov's lips against his.
It was a fucking amazing kiss. Shane was pretty sure if Rozanov hadn't crowded him against the shower wall, he would have collapsed. Everything was too much already. Shane was practically gasping into his mouth, and Rozanov took that as an invitation to slide his tongue into Shane's mouth.
The feeling of Rozanov's hardness against his own finally pulled Shane's head out of his dick. He pulled away, bracing his hands on Rozanov's shoulders to keep him from leaning in again.
"Oh my god." Shane was panting. "We can't do this here. We can't do this at all."
Rozanov tilted his head, like Shane's words confused him. His cheeks were pink, and his chest was heaving. He looked about as wrecked as Shane felt. He still hadn't said a word, but somehow, Shane knew what he meant.
"I'm in room 1410." All of Shane's impulse control was gone. He couldn't seem to remember exactly why they absolutely should not be doing this. All he could think about was the way Rozanov smirked when he told him his hotel room number. Shane felt himself grow harder, if that was even possible.
Rozanov held up nine fingers and made a knocking gesture. Shane let out a shuddering breath. The fact that Rozanov managed to get him like this without a single word made Shane feel… something. He should have said no. Or at least had the dignity to make Rozanov say it out loud. But Shane fought to keep his voice even as he went against all the alarm bells ringing in his head and said, "I might open the door."
Then, he let go of Rozanov's shoulders and fled into the locker room.
This was bad. This was really, really fucking bad. Ilya was in way over his head. He'd let himself get carried away. He was supposed to stay away from Shane Hollander, not make out with him in the showers and agree to go to his hotel room.
There was literally no way that this was going to end well for Ilya. He should have just walked away when he realized Hollander was into him. Fuck. Hollander was into him and he didn't even know they were soulmates.
Any thoughts Ilya had about telling Hollander they were soulmates immediately went down the drain the moment he'd kissed him. Their relationship was already getting too fucking complicated. He could deal with mutual sexual attraction, but actually being together was a completely different story. There had never been an out gay NHL player before, much less two players on rivaling teams who were soulmates. Ilya couldn't even begin to imagine the ramifications it would have for their careers, especially since they hadn't even fucking started yet. Their lives would be over before they could really begin. Plus, they didn't even really like each other. Ilya wasn't willing to risk everything for Hollander. He was sure that if Hollander knew, he'd feel the same.
But, Hollander also kissed him back in the shower and gave Ilya his room number with no hesitation. He'd practically melted under Ilya's hands. If Ilya never spoke to him– if he never found out they were soulmates– he was pretty sure this could still work. It would be a one-night stand, and they'd both move on tomorrow and never think about it again.
At least, that was what Ilya told himself as he knocked on Hollander's hotel room door at 9:09. Tastefully late.
Hollander opened the door almost immediately. He was wearing a nice looking buttoned shirt and his cheeks were already pink. Ilya stepped into the room and let him shut the door, trying to keep his breathing even. He heard both the click of the deadlock and the flip of the latch before Hollander turned around.
"So, we should probably–"
Ilya didn't let him finish whatever it was he wanted to say. He grabbed Hollander by the shoulders and crashed their lips together.
It was just as electric the second time. Hollander practically went limp in his arms, kissing Ilya back frantically. Ilya backed him up against the wall and wedged a thigh in between Hollander's legs. The whimper Hollander let out made Ilya lose whatever shreds of self-control he had left. All he cared about was getting Hollander to make that sound again.
Hands brushed across Ilya's nipples. He groaned into Hollander's mouth and scrambled at the buttons of his shirt. It took a lot longer than Ilya wanted it to, but he figured Hollander wouldn't appreciate him tearing the shirt off his body. Impulsively, he grabbed Hollander's hand and pressed it against his crotch. His pupils visibly dilated as he gripped Ilya through his jeans. Then, that hand was unzipping Ilya's fly and working its way inside his jeans.
Ilya inhaled shakily as he watched Hollander's hand move under the fabric. He'd never been so turned on in his life.
He made quick work of his own shirt and cupped Hollander's face in his hand. Hollander looked at him with big eyes, his uncertainty as visible on his face as his arousal. Still, when Ilya brushed his thumb over Hollander's lips, he sucked it into his mouth. Ilya could pinpoint the exact moment Hollander realized exactly how much he liked the sensation. His eyes went impossibly wider, and he let out an almost imperceptible moan. Ilya couldn't suppress a shudder.
Then, his thumb was slipping out of Hollander's mouth as he sank to his knees.
Ilya had to bite into his fist to keep himself quiet. He'd always been a talker during sex. Hollander pulled his jeans down and pressed his tongue to the head, and Ilya was pretty sure he was going to fucking die. Death by head. What a way to go.
Hollander was a fucking natural. It was obviously his first time, but he was so eager and willing. Ilya watched him closely, trying to memorize the sight and the feeling. Hollander was clearly caught up in his own head, but whatever he was thinking about must have been good. He moaned around Ilya's cock, which made Ilya tangle his hand in Hollander's hair. Clearly, he was enjoying being on his knees, but Ilya was very quickly losing it.
He pulled Hollander off his cock, staving off his orgasm at the last possible second. Hollander looked panicked, like he'd done something wrong. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I've never…"
Ilya shook his head firmly. He hoped he'd get the message that he'd done everything right. Hollander rose up off his knees, looking at Ilya with curiosity.
"Were you thinking about this?"
What a fucking question. Of course he'd been thinking about it. He'd been thinking about it practically every day since that night in the gym over a year ago. He thought about it every time he was with a girl. He thought about it every time he picked up a hockey stick. His mind was dominated by thoughts of Shane Hollander. Ilya couldn't exactly say all of that, so he just nodded.
"Still not going to say anything?" Hollander asked. He didn't sound pissed off about it, more confused. Ilya nodded again, and then shoved his tongue down Hollander's throat.
They stumbled backwards onto the bed. Ilya's jeans were still pooled around his ankles. For a second, Hollander was on top of Ilya, kissing him passionately and pushing him into the mattress, but he quickly pulled away and stood back up. For a moment, he just looked down at Ilya like he couldn't believe this was happening. Ilya let Hollander stare while he pulled off his pants.
Hollander made eye contact with Ilya and waited, like he was waiting for direction. Ilya just gestured to his clothes and then patted the bed next to him. It didn't take long for Hollander to get the message and pull his clothes off. Ilya could barely breathe. He wondered how Hollander would have reacted if Ilya was coaching him through this. He wished he'd get to see it.
His nervous energy was palpable as he laid down on the bed next to Ilya. He was always so fucking tense, even around his teammates. Ilya made it his goal of the night to get him to relax for two seconds. He wrapped a hand around Hollander's dick and kissed him deeply. Hollander let out a soft, breathy moan, and then he was pushing Ilya flat on his back and taking his cock into his mouth.
Ilya couldn't keep himself from looking. He propped himself up on his elbow and watched Hollander figure out how to suck dick. God, he was good. He somehow figured out all of Ilya's sensitive spots, and Ilya was absolutely not going to last. Hollander pulled off, stroked him once, and then Ilya was coming.
Most of his release fell onto his stomach, but some hit Hollander in the face. His tongue darted out, tasting Ilya's cum, and fuck. Ten minutes ago, Ilya had thought seeing Hollander on his knees was the hottest thing ever. He was absolutely fucking wrong. He needed to see Hollander come right fucking now.
Ilya wiped the cum off his stomach, tossed the tissue on the floor, and kissed his way down Hollander's body. Quickly, he lost himself in the familiarity of sucking dick. He hadn't slept with Sasha in well over a year, but they'd been together enough times that Ilya knew what he was doing. Hollander was writhing underneath him, running his hands through Ilya's hair and across his face.
"Ah! Fuck! Rozanov!" Hollander's hands tightened in Ilya's hair and Ilya knew he was about to come. That hadn't taken long at all. "I'm going to–"
Instead of pulling off, Ilya sucked harder. Hollander made a beautiful noise and came into Ilya's mouth. He started mumbling nonsense and sorrys. Ilya let him babble, too fucked out to translate his slurred English.
"I can't believe we did that." Hollander breathed out, and then he started laughing. Ilya couldn't help but laugh with him. The whole situation was ridiculous. It had been the best sex of his life, and Ilya had had a lot of really good sex. It could also never happen again. Like ever.
He wanted a cigarette. Fuck the stupid hotel room no smoking policy and fuck the Boston Bears for making him quit.
"You're… not going to tell anyone about this, right?" Hollander asked, once he finally composed himself. "I get you're a dickhead and refuse to talk to me, but I know you talk to other people. I've seen you do it."
Ilya shook his head, and zipped his lips shut. He didn't think Hollander actually thought he'd tell people, but he clearly needed reassurance. Now that the main event was over, Hollander was clearly freaking the fuck out. Ilya wasn't too far behind him.
There was a mutual understanding that whatever this had been was a huge mistake. Ilya slowly started putting his clothes back on. He needed to get out of this room as fast as possible before he did something even more stupid like fall back into bed with Hollander or ask to stay. It was nothing more than a quick, no-strings-attached hookup.
Ilya's words felt itchy underneath the plaster. He resisted the urge to scratch at them as he headed towards the door.
Hollander pulled his briefs back on and followed Ilya. "I guess we'll see each other on the ice."
Ilya wanted to kiss him one last time because he probably would never get the chance to ever again. Instead, he grabbed the notepad on the nearby table and scribbled his number down.
He was out the door before Hollander could get another word out.
08/07/10 23:01
Unknown Number: Have you ever done that before?
Ilya: who is this
Unknown Number: Fuck off.
Unknown Number: Wait, actually save me as Shannon.
Ilya: no, you are jane
Ilya: and who am i?
Jane: Lily, obviously.
Ilya: obviously
Jane: Now answer my question.
Ilya: yes i have
Ilya: couple times with my coachs son in russia
Jane: Your coach's son?
Jane: Jesus. You don't do anything halfway, do you?
Ilya: i like trouble
Jane: I could tell.
Ilya: that i have experience or that i like trouble?
Jane: Both.
Ilya: it was your first time?
Jane: Yes.
Jane: With a man, I mean. I'm not a virgin.
Ilya: did you like it?
Jane: I'm not going to stroke your ego for you.
Ilya: because you want to stroke other things
Read 23:37
November 2010– Montreal
Two weeks after the Boston Montreal game, Shane felt restless. Nothing else had been able to live up to that adrenaline high. They'd won other games, but none made Shane feel even close to how he'd felt winning against Rozanov.
His mind was a constant loop of Ilya Rozanov. Rozanov smirking at him, and then losing their first face-off. Rozanov on the floor of the gym. Rozanov jerking off in the shower. Rozanov slamming Shane into the boards. Rozanov with his hands in Shane's hair and his dick in Shane's mouth. When he wasn't thinking about hockey, he was thinking about Rozanov. It was fucking infuriating.
It had been a one-night stand. Shane hadn't done a one-night stand before, but he was 99.9% sure that he absolutely was not supposed to be thinking about it this much. He needed to get laid, like yesterday.
Hayden Pike had invited him out for drinks tonight at ten. Shane hadn't hesitated to accept. He genuinely liked Hayden, and he knew how to have a good time. Hayden would be the right person to help Shane out of whatever Rozanov-induced psychotic episode he was having. He'd get Shane laid and then this whole thing would be over.
It was a good plan. Shane was totally committed to it, right up until his phone buzzed on the couch cushion next to him.
03/11/10 20:54
Lily: would you let me fuck you?
Shane blinked at his phone, and then rubbed a hand over his eyes to make sure he wasn't having a hallucination. Of all the things he'd been expecting to see, a text from Rozanov was absolutely not on the list. Especially not this text. His blood was torn between rushing to his cheeks and his cock. Christ.
Shane: Jesus, man.
Shane: A little warning next time.
Lily: what, are you busy?
Shane: I'm about to be.
Lily: but you are not right now
Lily: so answer my question
Fuck. Shane felt lightheaded. This guy was such a fucking asshole and he turned Shane on so fucking much. His hands shook as he typed out his response.
Shane: Why? Have you been thinking about it?
Lily: of course i've been thinking about it
Lily: you have seen yourself, yes?
Shane: So you want to fuck me? Is that what you're saying?
Lily: yes
Lily: i want to fuck you
Shane's dick was impossibly hard already. He was only able to resist the urge to shove a hand down his pants for about ten seconds.
Shane: Really?
Lily: really
Lily: would you like that?
Shane: Yes.
Lily: i would make it very good for you
Shane: Jesus fycking christ.
Lily: a typo? do i really have that much of an effect on you?
Lily: or is your hand perhaps busy doing something else?
It shouldn't have been hot. It should have been fucking embarrassing to get called out like that, but it just made Shane moan.
Shane: Actually go fuck yourself.
Lily: you and i both know that's not what you want from me
Shane: You really want to fuck me?
Lily: again
Lily: very much
Lily: would be so hot
At this point, all bets were off. Something about Rozanov made Shane throw caution to the wind. He'd never done something like this, but chasing his orgasm was more important than seeming cool right now.
Shane: How would you do it?
Lily: i would be gentle with you
Lily: the first time at least
Lily: stretch you out enough to take my cock
Lily: have you ever been fingered, hollander?
Shane gasped. He closed his eyes and imagined Rozanov's big fingers inside of him. It was almost enough to make Shane shoot off right there, barely having touched himself. This was absolutely not helping his Rozanov problem.
Shane: Only by myself. It's been a while.
Lily: i bet you would come apart so pretty on my fingers
Shane: Holy fuck.
Lily: are you touching yourself right now?
Shane: Yes.
Lily: you are a lot more responsive in person
Shane: Not exactly easy to type one-handed.
Lily: i don't know, i'm not having any problems
And then, he was sending a photo. In his nineteen years of life, Shane had never received (or sent) any nudes. He'd always thought that it was too dangerous. He didn't feel that way anymore. Rozanov's big hand was wrapped around his even bigger dick. Shane's throat went dry. All he could think about was how the weight of it had felt in his mouth and how he wanted it inside him more than anything.
He was coming almost immediately, moaning Rozanov's name to his empty apartment. It shouldn't have been an intense orgasm, but Shane's entire body was shaking.
Shane: Fuck you. You're so hot.
Lily: no photo for me?
Shane: No.
Lily: don't tell me you came already
Shane: Fuck you.
Lily: fucks sake, hollander
Shane froze. It was the first time those words had been said to him. His words. Shane knew it didn't count, but fuck, it was terrifying to hear them coming from Rozanov.
Imagine if he was Shane's soulmate. That would be a fucking disaster.
Lily: send picture
Lily: i still want to see
Shane ignored all the warning bells in his head and listened. He positioned the camera over his stained pants– fuck, he'd come in his pants– and snapped a photo.
There was a long gap between when Shane sent the photo and when Rozanov texted back. Shane didn't need to guess what he was doing with it.
Lily: jesus christ
Lily: you came in your pants
Shane: Don't let it go to your head.
Lily: too late
Lily: already has
Shane caught a glimpse of the time and swore. It was already 9:30. He was supposed to be leaving the house in fifteen minutes. Fuck. His outfit was ruined, and his legs were shaking a little as he got up off the couch. There was absolutely no way Shane could go out with Hayden like this. He grimaced and pulled up his last conversation with Hayden.
03/11/10 21:31
Shane: Hey, Hayden. I'm sorry to cancel on you so last minute, but I'm not going to be able to make it out tonight.
Shane: Trust me, you don't want the details.
Hayden Pike: Yikes
Hayden Pike: Take care of yourself, dude. Hydrate or whatever. We can go out next week.
Shane: Definitely. Have enough fun for both of us this time.
Hayden Pike: Oh, trust. I will
He really did not doubt him. Shane was prepared to get off the couch, take a very hot shower, and collapse into bed, but Rozanov had texted again.
Lily: next time we are in the same city with enough time
Lily: maybe i can get your hotel room number again? take you apart in real life this time?
Lily: do you think you'll come as fast for me?
Shane: I like you better when you don't talk to me.
Lily: aw hollander
Lily: we both know that isn't true.
The question of why the fuck Rozanov talked to everyone but him had been nagging at him for years. Shane figured there wasn't going to be a better chance to ask it.
Shane: No, but seriously. Why don't you talk to me?
Rozanov typed for a long time. Shane watched the three little dots appear and disappear until he couldn't bear it anymore. He was almost 100% sure that Rozanov was just going to ignore him, so Shane decided to at least get himself off the couch and out of his cum-stained pants. When he checked his phone after a quick shower, a message was waiting for him.
Lily: i am scared
Shane blinked. That was not what he'd been expecting.
Shane: Scared?
Lily: i am not a good talker
Lily: i do not have words to say to you
Lily: not ones that you'd want to hear
Shane: I wouldn't care if you spoke to me in Russian.
Lily: you like my voice, hollander?
This was the most vulnerable anyone had ever been with him, which was funny considering what they'd been doing less than an hour ago. It made Shane feel that unidentifiable feeling again.
Shane: I do.
Lily: i am sorry
Lily: you make my brain not function in any language
Shane: I'll take that as a compliment.
Lily: because you are so boring i fall asleep inside
Shane: And you're back.
Shane found himself smiling unconsciously at his phone. Smiling at Rozanov. Once he realised exactly what he was doing, he felt nauseous.
Everything about this was a giant, ridiculous mistake. He never should have let Rozanov kiss him in the shower. Shane certainly shouldn't have sucked him off and then added him to his contacts. He definitely shouldn't have let whatever just happened happen.
Today was supposed to be the day that he stopped letting Ilya Rozanov take over his mind, not the day that he started fantasising about what it would feel like to have Rozanov's hands inside of him. And yet, Shane was pretty sure that was all he'd be able to think about for the rest of his life. That picture would be burned into his memory.
This was really bad. Shane had dug himself into a really fucking deep hole. He was going to have to end this thing with Rozanov to get himself out of it.
January 2011– Nashville
Ilya stretched out on the massive hotel bed. He was a little more than buzzed after drinks with his All Star teammates. He'd probably gone a little too hard for a coworker dinner, but his brother had tried to call him four times throughout the night. For a second, Ilya had been worried, and then he'd listened to the voicemail Andrei had left him. It was four minutes of rambling and culminated with him demanding more money. Ilya made it about four hours before he caved and wired it over. It was a new record, and he celebrated with more drinks.
His team had been nice. Ilya had secretly been hoping to play on the same team as Hollander, but the league had decided to split the teams into a North American team and a European team. It had been obvious as to why. The league was going to milk his rivalry with Hollander until the last possible opportunity. Which probably would be after they were both dead.
Hollander hadn't reached out yet, even though this was the first time since their… conversation in November that they were close enough together for long enough to meet up. Ilya wasn't sure why he was disappointed by that. This… thing with Hollander was still a bad idea. Of course it was still a bad idea. It might even be the worst idea possible. Ilya had this internal argument with himself every single time he thought about Shane Hollander, which was a lot. Like, a lot. He'd been so fucking easy. It took barely anything to get him onto his knees or to admit he wanted Ilya to fuck him. He came in his fucking pants at the dick pic Ilya had sent. It was an amazing dick pic, but still.
He shouldn't keep doing this, but Shane Hollander was fucking addictive. Now that Ilya had been given a taste, he wasn't sure how he'd ever lived without it.
It was kind of crazy that Hollander had this effect on Ilya. They'd met up once and had one very memorable texting conversation. Ilya had done more than that with dozens of women in the time since, and he hardly thought about them. He wasn't sure why Hollander was so hard to shake.
Even worse, Hollander was captivating on the ice. If Ilya wasn't thinking about fucking him, he was thinking about playing him in hockey. Ilya actually loved playing against him. He loved slamming him into the boards and taking the puck from him and beating him at face-offs. Every time they played, it had been a beautiful reminder of all the reasons Ilya loved playing hockey. Especially when the Bears won.
He wondered what Hollander was doing. He wondered if Hollander was out with his friends or holed up in his hotel room. He wondered if Hollander was thinking about him. He wondered why, out of so many people, it had to be him.
Ilya thought about texting him, but Hollander was a bit like a cat. If Ilya didn't want to spook him, he had to let Hollander come to him. They'd see each other tomorrow.
Hopefully.
The press conference wasn't unexpected, but it was unpleasant. Shane had been doing such a good job of avoiding Rozanov. He'd decided after their text conversation to take a play out of Rozanov's book and ignore him. It was actually pretty effective. If he kept himself out of Rozanov's reach, he wouldn't be able to pull Shane back in with his infuriatingly magnetic aura. It had been a good, safe plan to keep Shane out of danger.
Of course the league had to barrel over all this just to fan the flames of their rivalry. They'd given Shane the heads up about four hours in advance. When he'd asked why, they'd told him straight up that the press has been more interested in him and Rozanov than anything else this season.
That was how Shane found himself sitting at a raised table next to Ilya Rozanov in a room full of cameras. They were sitting so close their forearms were almost touching. Shane swore he could feel the heat of Rozanov's skin through his sleeve. He had to make a conscious effort to keep his gaze forward.
"Ilya," the first reporter began, "how does it feel to play on a team of all Europeans in your first All-Star Game?"
It took Rozanov a moment to reply. Shane wondered if his presence was actually affecting Rozanov's grasp on the English language, like he'd said back in November
"Good. Perfect." He smirked. Shane felt his mouth go dry. "Locker room makes more sense than usual."
The room laughed. Shane watched the way Rozanov was slowly rubbing the knuckle of his forefinger with his thumb. His hands were really nice. They made Shane remember a whole lot more from that November conversation.
Shane had a hard time focusing on the questions he was being asked with his mind swirling. He hoped that his answers were at least semi-coherent, and he hoped he wasn't visibly looking over at Rozanov too much.
His curls were popping out of the bottom of his baseball cap. His v-neck had to be at least a size too small. Shane could see the gold chain of the crucifix Rozanov had been wearing… the last time they saw each other.
Shane took a heavy drink of water, and sat back in his chair. That didn't help at all. Now he could see Rozanov better. He could see the way the muscles in his back shifted, straining against the thin material of his shirt. He was gesturing and laughing as he responded to a question Shane definitely hadn't heard get asked. Blood was rushing in his ears.
"Shane?"
"Sorry?" Shane forced out, blinking in confusion.
"Just a quick one from the Toronto Star: Would you like to play on an All-Star team with Ilya in the future?"
His instinct was to say no. He didn't want Ilya to be that close to him for that long. At least, not until he could get himself under control. That wasn't the PR friendly answer though, so Shane took a steadying breath, smiled, and lied through his teeth. "Of course. I mean, Ilya is a great player."
"Ilya, same question to you?"
"If Hollander doesn't mind me being starting center, then yes."
Laughs again. Shane didn't have to force his eye roll as he moved to rest his arms on the table. Rozanov moved as well, and the edges of their elbows were touching. Shane had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from reacting. He felt kind of insane. The hair on his arm was standing up.
"Both Montreal and Boston have been out of the playoffs for three seasons now. Do you guys feel the pressure to restore your team's legacies, even this early in your careers?"
Shane rubbed the back of his neck with his arm and furrowed his brow. When he turned his head, Rozanov was already looking at him. His expression was kind of desperate. He was practically begging Shane to take this question for both of them. Once again, Shane remembered that Rozanov's English wasn't great and he supposedly made that worse. He'd probably only caught about half the words.
"I can't speak for Rozanov or the attitudes in Boston, but I know the fans in Montreal definitely love their team. They're expecting us to turn things around and get back in the playoffs. Maybe win some cups." Shane laughed, a little awkwardly. "I feel the same way. I love Montreal, and I love the fans. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't feel pressure that I'm not already putting on myself."
He hoped that was enough. Unfortunately, the reporter turned to Ilya, clearly waiting for a response. He cleared his throat and said, "Yes. What Hollander said."
Rozanov smiled at the room as they chuckled. Shane was suddenly struck by the fact that this was the first time they'd ever had a conversation. He'd never heard Rozanov talk this much before. He definitely hadn't been lying when he said he liked Rozanov's voice.
The next time Shane looked at him, Rozanov winked. Shane had to purse his lips to keep himself from laughing.
Under the table, he felt Rozanov's foot tap against his. It was barely anything, but it still made Shane's heart skip a beat.
Christ.
He was definitely going to end up in Rozanov's hotel room tonight, wasn't he?
The NHL All-Stars Skills Competition had been a fucking dream. It wasn't a big deal to most people, but not only was Shane here as a rookie, he'd set a league record and beaten Rozanov in the shot accuracy competition. Somehow, the result of that was standing at the hotel bar surrounded by people he barely knew trying to get him drunk, like they weren't going to play a game tomorrow.
Practically every All-Star was crammed into one room. It was loud and smelled like shit and Shane wanted to be literally anywhere else. Well, maybe not anywhere. There was definitely somewhere specific he wanted to be.
Rozanov was on the other side of the room, surrounded by a similarly sized group of people. He was clearly the life of the party, because everyone around him was laughing and smiling. He looked like he belonged there. Shane tried desperately to ignore him– to ignore the pull he felt towards him. But then, Rozanov smirked and Shane caved immediately.
29/01/11 22:36
Shane: Hey.
He didn't watch as Rozanov presumably got the text and responded. Shane was absolutely determined not to let Rozanov know just how desperate he was for this. He felt his phone buzz in his hand, but he let a Pittsburgh defenseman whine to him about how much he missed his wife for way too long. It had probably been at least twenty minutes before Shane finally opened it.
Lily: was wondering when i'd hear from you
Lily: took you long enough
Shane: I wasn't going to text you, but then I beat you and I figured you might need a consolation prize.
Lily: and that prize is…?
Shane: Actually, nevermind.
Shane huffed and put his phone away fully. He wasn't going to let Rozanov make him ask for it. He had to maintain at least some of his little dignity. It wasn't until it buzzed five consecutive times that he pulled it out again.
Lily: come on
Lily: i know how badly you want it
Lily: you were practically ready to get on your knees for me at that press conference
Lily: do not think i didn't notice
Lily: you are not subtle
"Dude, are you alright?" Someone asked, gesturing to Shane's face. "You got all red."
Shane held his drink up with a shrug, thanking his mother's ancestors for this built-in excuse. "Ah. Yeah. Asian flush. This is just how it is sometimes."
Shane: You're an asshole. I hope you know that.
Lily: you know you could have said that to my face
Shane: But it's so much more satisfying to get a response from you.
Lily: one day, maybe
Lily: now, was there something else you wanted?
Shane chanced a direct glance across the room. Ilya was casually chatting with some other Russian guy, like he wasn't practically torturing Shane in public. This motherfucker. Shane hated him. He wanted to fuck him more.
Shane: You know what I want.
Lily: yes
Lily: but i want you to say it
Shane: Fuck you.
Lily: ask me nicely, hollander
Shane: Can I have your hotel room, please?
Lily: so that i can fuck you the way you deserve?
Shane shivered, biting the inside of his lip. He was putting a lot of effort into acting normal, trying to at least somewhat contribute to the conversation happening around him. It was a miracle that he was able to get a coherent sentence out. It was also a miracle that his dick was only half-hard.
Shane: Maybe not this time.
Lily: really?
Shane: We shouldn't. Not here. It's too dangerous.
Shane: People could hear.
Lily: you can be quiet, can't you?
He absolutely could not be quiet. Shane swallowed harshly. It was an obvious bait attempt, and Shane let himself fall in the trap. When he looked up, Rozanov was watching him from across the room.
Shane: I can try.
Lily: 1221. come whenever you can get away
And then, Rozanov was laughing and patting the guy next to him on the back and heading towards the elevators.
Shane took a steadying breath, put his phone away, and focused on the people around him. He ignored his desperation and let some guy from Toronto pull him back to the bar. He needed to waste a little bit of time. It was bad enough that he was about to let Rozanov fuck him in a hotel full of their coworkers and the press, he couldn't make it that obvious.
The longer he lingered at the bar, the more desperate he got. He couldn't stop thinking about the fact that Rozanov was up in his hotel room waiting for Shane. Waiting to fuck him. The anticipation was practically killing him. After almost two hours, he was barely able to keep his breathing steady. He carefully excused himself from the group he'd found himself in, telling the people who complained that he wanted to make sure he was well rested for the game tomorrow.
Rozanov opened the door in a half-unbuttoned dress shirt and trousers. Shane pushed past him into the room and locked the door.
"Nobody saw me." He said instead of a greeting, mostly to remind himself. Rozanov just looked at him with that stupid fucking smirk on his face. It was the same one he directed at Shane during face-offs. It was the same one that made Shane feel weak in the knees and distracted him enough to make him lose face-offs.
Shane kissed him so he didn't have to keep looking at Rozanov's face. It was making him angry. Rozanov kissed him back passionately, immediately burying a hand in his hair.
Shane had kind of been hoping that their last encounter had been a fluke. If Rozanov was bad this time, Shane would be able to forget him a whole lot easier.
It wasn't bad though. Somehow, it was better. Shane's body was buzzing with anticipation as Rozanov's hands untucked his shirt from his pants and slid underneath. His hands were warm, and he used his grip on Shane's waist to manoeuvre him. Shane went willingly, blindly letting Rozanov move him until he felt the wall at his back. Apparently, that was Rozanov's MO. Three out of three times they'd… been together, Shane had found himself pinned against the wall. He was not complaining.
They both knew what was about to happen. Worse, they both knew that Shane wanted it. Some part of Shane was glad that Rozanov was maintaining the whole "I don't talk to Hollander" thing, because he wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it if Rozanov pointed out his desperation.
Shane felt Rozanov tip his head back, deepening the kiss. He moaned slightly when Shane opened his mouth and slid his tongue against Ilya's. It felt a bit like a win, especially since it made Ilya's hand tighten in his hair. Fuck.
Rozanov pulled back. Shane felt like a complete mess. They were both panting slightly.
Shane dropped to his knees, looking up at Rozanov. Rozanov looked down at him, cupping his face in one big hand. He leaned forward, getting his mouth on Rozanov's cock through the fabric layer. It wasn't exactly what Shane wanted, but he'd been overwhelmed by his need for this. He moved to unbutton Rozanov's pants, but the hand left his face and grabbed him by the wrists. When he looked up, ready to protest (ready to beg), Rozanov just shook his head.
And then, Shane was being pulled off the ground and thrown over Rozanov's shoulder like he weighed nothing.
"What the fuck? Put me down!" Shane practically yelled. He tried to twist, but Rozanov's strong arm kept him in place. "I can walk, asshole."
Rozanov just chuckled as he deposited Shane on the bed, standing over him and pulling his shirt off. With Rozanov looming over him like that, Shane felt small. It was a ridiculous thought. He was a 5'10" pro-hockey player built of solid muscle, but as big as he might be, Rozanov was undeniably bigger. The fact that he'd been able to manhandle Shane onto the bed that easily should have been infuriating, but instead Shane felt insanely turned on.
Shane's mouth was practically watering as Rozanov undid the last few buttons of his shirt and slid his pants down. He pulled a packet of lube and a condom out of his pocket before he discarded them. His eyes were immediately drawn to the outline of Rozanov's hard length in his briefs. Shane almost moaned at the sight, remembering how it had felt to have it in his mouth. Rozanov leaned down on the bed, planting a thigh in between Shane's that was just far enough away from his crotch that Shane couldn't rut into it. He captured Shane's mouth in a bruising kiss.
He let Rozanov take off his shirt and press kisses to his stomach. When he started to squirm, Rozanov just wrapped one big hand around Shane's thigh to hold him in place. How was he so good at this? Fuck. Shane was about two seconds away from losing it. He wasn't convinced he was going to make it to the main event at this rate.
Rozanov pressed a kiss to his bulge over the fabric. It made Shane shiver. Then, Rozanov was undoing his pants and sliding them down his legs with his briefs. Being naked in front of him should have felt uncomfortable, but it didn't. Maybe it would have been if his brain wasn't dominated by Rozanov's name.
Shane thought they were going to get right to it, but Rozanov leaned back over him and kissed him again. It was easy to lose himself in the feeling of Rozanov's mouth against his. He had absolutely no idea how long they were making out for. His coach could have walked in the room at that moment, and Shane probably wouldn't have noticed.
He's going to fucking kill me, Shane thought as Rozanov ground their erections against each other.
He's going to fuck me.
Like he could read Shane's mind, Rozanov finally pulled away and reached for the lube. Shane absolutely did not try to chase the kiss. And he definitely did not spread his legs. He would have denied it if Rozanov called him on it, but blessedly, he was still quiet.
Maybe Shane should have been put off by that, but it probably made this easier. He couldn't find it in himself to care anyway. Especially not when Rozanov crawled down the bed and ripped the lube packet open with his teeth. It was probably the hottest thing Shane had ever seen. He probably needed to see more things.
Rozanov was so confident in what he was doing, but so careful with Shane. It was like he knew what Shane wanted before he did. Most of their communication was non-verbal. They shouldn't have known each other well enough for that to work, but it did.
A wet finger started to circle Shane's rim. Shane let out a faint moan. He knew how this worked. He'd done a little… experimenting on himself. He had a dildo. Even if those sessions hadn't exactly been as fruitful as he would have liked them to be, he'd still done it before. The feeling wasn't abnormal, but the presence of another person definitely was.
Rozanov licked a stripe up Shane's cock as he slowly slid his finger in. Shane immediately tensed up, and then felt himself melt into the mattress as Rozanov's licking continued. He kept his breathing slow and even as Rozanov's finger went deeper and then…
Oh.
Shane gasped, his back arching unintentionally. "Fuck."
Rozanov smirked, and rubbed his finger over what had to be Shane's prostate again. He'd never been able to find it himself before, but Rozanov seemed to know exactly where it was and what to do with it. Shane couldn't keep himself from whimpering. He'd never felt like this before. It was exhilarating. He'd never really got why people went crazy for sex, but in this moment, he completely understood.
"Holy shit." Shane breathed out, covering his mouth with his hand. Rozanov reached up with his free hand and yanked his hand away. He didn't even pull away from Shane's cock.
Shane seriously was not going to last very long like this. He let out a pathetic whimper and squeezed his eyes shut. "Fuck… You have to… Slow…"
He couldn't get a sentence out, but Rozanov knew what he was saying. He pulled off Shane's cock, and gave him a quizzical look.
"You're good." Shane replied. He felt winded. "Very good. Too good. I need a second."
Rozanov used that second to stroke his own cock with his free hand, and then he reached for the condom. Shane was suddenly very aware of how massive he was. This was probably not a good starting point, but Shane Hollander was not a fucking quitter. He'd been thinking about this for too long to tap out now.
Two fingers pressed against him. He was a lot more ready this time, letting Rozanov stretch him with little tensing. It burned a little, but it was a good burn. It reminded him of how his muscles felt after a long workout. He knew he'd be sore tomorrow, but he also knew it would be worth it.
Shane reached down and wrapped a hand around his cock. Rozanov made a noise that sounded almost like a growl, and then his fingers were sliding out. He was grabbing him by the hips and manhandling Shane onto his front before he could even make a noise of protest. Shane settled himself on hands and knees because was about 90% sure this was how sex between two men worked. He'd tried to watch gay porn to get a feel for the vibe, but he'd barely managed to make it forty seconds in before he was slamming his laptop shut out of embarrassment.
Rozanov was clearly happy with the position, because Shane could feel one hand on his hip and the blunt head of Rozanov's cock against his hole.
Fuck. This was really happening.
He pushed in slowly, and Shane tried to keep himself as relaxed as possible. That burning sensation was back, a little sharper than before, but Shane had been expecting that. The pressure was the most overwhelming feeling he'd ever experienced. He felt impossibly full.
Rozanov ran a soothing hand against the small of Shane's back when his hips were finally flush against Shane's ass. Shane's voice was strained as he said, "I'm okay."
Then, he pulled out slightly and pushed back in, somehow deeper.
"Fuck." Shane gasped. "Wow."
He thrust a few times, clearly getting used to the feeling of being inside Shane. Then, he adjusted his hips and on his next thrust, he hit Shane's prostate.
"Yes. Holy fuck. Keep fucking doing–" Shane's arms shook as Rozanov hit his prostate again and again with deadly accuracy.
Yeah. This was definitely why people had sex. Shane had never felt more keyed up in his life. He didn't feel pain or fear anymore, he just felt an overwhelming need. It felt so good that Shane genuinely couldn't keep himself quiet anymore. He had enough sense at that moment to bite down on his knuckles to muffle his moans.
Of course Ilya Rozanov was already a sex god at nineteen. If Shane wasn't on the receiving end of that experience, it would have pissed him off. It probably would in an hour, when Shane was safely back in his own room two floors down.
Distantly, as Shane pulled his hand out of his mouth to wrap it around his cock, he wished they'd had enough foresight to put down a towel. He was about twenty seconds away from ruining this bedding. He'd also definitely feel guilty about that later, but there was nothing he could do to stop it now.
Rozanov let out a faint moan– the first noise he'd let out since he'd flipped Shane onto his stomach– and then Shane was coming. Hard. He was pretty sure his vision whited out for a second.
His own orgasm did not distract him from the way Rozanov's hips stuttered to a stop as he came inside of Shane's body. Well, inside a condom inside of Shane. If he hadn't come less than a minute ago, he probably would have gotten hard again. His spent cock gave an interested twitch, but then Rozanov was pulling out and collapsing on top of him.
"I can't believe I just did that." Shane whispered, mostly to himself. The weight of Rozanov was surprisingly comfortable, so for just a couple of moments, Shane let himself bask in the afterglow without worrying. He was impulsive now. He could let himself relax for two seconds.
Eventually, Rozanov rolled off the bed and went to the bathroom to clean up. Shane stared up at the ceiling and let himself remember exactly why this was a bad idea.
He'd just had sex with Ilya Rozanov in a hotel full of hockey players. He had to play in the All-Star game tomorrow. Jesus fucking Christ.
It had been really good sex though. Shane was suddenly disappointed. He'd probably never get to experience this again. He couldn't let Rozanov keep fucking him, and the likelihood of him finding someone else safe to do this with was low.
Maybe he'd find a girl who was really into pegging. Or maybe he'd just have to live his life having mediocre sex, knowing in the back of his mind that this was an option.
Rozanov came out of the bathroom. Shane got up on unsteady legs and headed there himself, picking up his clothes on the way in. He could feel Rozanov ogling him the entire time. He wiped the cum off himself, got dressed again, made himself look at least semi-professional, and slipped without saying goodbye.
Blessedly, Shane didn't see anyone as he went back to his room. He was able to get himself into a scaldingly hot shower in peace. When he came out, wrapped in a towel, a text was waiting on his phone.
30/01/11 02:01
Lily: thanks, hollander
Lily: was fun
Shane rolled his eyes and ignored him because he was an asshole. Trust Rozanov to remind Shane that he actually didn't like him pretty much immediately. Shane had almost forgotten.
His itch had been scratched. Very thoroughly. Now he knew what it was like to fuck Ilya Rozanov. He could move on with his life and his season without constantly thinking about it. Rozanov would be nothing more to him than some asshole he saw a couple times a year. He'd forget about this… encounter in a few months and that would be the end of it all.
He hoped. He really, really hoped.
June 2011– Las Vegas
Ilya lost Rookie of the Year to Shane Hollander.
The sting of it hadn't fully set in yet. It had been a close race. It probably had never been closer. He'd known that it was a toss up between the two of them, but some part of him had expected to win it. He always expected to win. He'd been number one all his life. He just wasn't used to losing, especially not to someone like Shane Hollander.
Christ. He needed to get out of this room, with the press watching him like a hawk for any negative reaction. He needed a fucking cigarette.
The rest of the ceremony lasted fucking ages. Ilya kept a carefully composed expression plastered on his face, trying desperately not to show the hurt. He didn't want to deal with the narratives the press would spin around him if he let anything slip. He'd just let them run headlines about how cool and collected he was, even in the face of defeat. They didn't deserve to know the truth.
He went willingly to the party, letting anyone who talked to him know how sportsmanlike he was. Every time someone apologized to him, it felt like a knife to the gut.
It wasn't even about the award anymore. It had stung to lose, but now every time someone reminded Ilya about that, he was forced to remember the flight back to Russia he'd be getting on in three days.
He didn't want to go back. He didn't want to face his family. His father was liberal with his disappointment when Ilya's team lost pre-season games (not that he watched them in the first place). He really didn't want to imagine what he'd say when he found out Ilya lost this award. He really didn't want to imagine what he'd do when he finally had the chance.
Thankfully, Ilya was not the person most people in the room were itching to talk to. Twenty minutes in, he slipped out and headed for the elevators. He thought about going up to his room and sulking for the rest of the night, but he craved the familiarity of a cigarette. He had an unopened pack in his room for this exact scenario. What his team didn't know wouldn't hurt them.
There was a rooftop bar. Some girls he'd been chatting up in the lobby had told him. Maybe there would be a smoking section there. At the very least he could get a drink and brood by himself.
A very pretty and very drunk girl tried to flirt with Ilya in the elevator. On any other day, he probably would have indulged her flirting and followed her to the bar. He really wasn't in the mood for that tonight. He politely laughed at her drunken attempts at being funny and split off when she started for the bar.
There wasn't a designated smoking section, but Ilya honestly didn't care. This was Vegas. He could do what he wanted. That was, like, the entire point of the city. He stood off in an empty corner of the roof, stared out at the city skyline, and lit up his first cigarette of the night.
It felt nice to be alone, listening to the loud music coming from the bar and feeling the wind on his skin. He hadn't realised how oppressive the cameras felt until they were no longer pointed at him. He breathed out, watching the smoke drift up into the sky.
He was on his third when someone finally found him.
"It's not worth jumping over."
Ilya half-turned. Shane Hollander stood right behind him, his arms crossed. Of course it was Hollander. Ilya wasn't even surprised. He just took another drag, and waited.
"I didn't expect to find you here." Hollander lied. Ilya could see right through him. He wasn't sure how he felt about Hollander looking for him. "I just came up to get some air."
Ilya exhaled slowly. He wanted to say so much and nothing at all. Hollander moved to stand next to him. Their shoulders were touching.
"It could have gone to either one of us, you know that right?"
Ilya rolled his eyes. He didn't even have it in him to be angry that Hollander assumed he was butthurt about losing. Ilya had never given him any reason to think otherwise.
Hollander was looking at him intently, like he was trying to read Ilya's mind. His expression melted from righteous indignation to something almost… caring. Not that Ilya would be fooled into thinking Hollander cared about him. He chuckled at the thought of that, dropping the butt of his cigarette and stamping it out.
As they stood in silence, Ilya contemplated him later. He'd at least get some pleasure in telling Hollander that not everything is about him all the time. They weren't friends though. Hollander probably didn't even care.
"I should get back." Shane said, after several minutes of staring at the city. "My parents are probably still at the party."
Ilya stiffened. His parents. Of course Shane Hollander had his perfect parents here to celebrate with him.
"I guess… I guess I'll see you next season."
Shane stuck his hand out, and Ilya was overcome with the desire to just kiss him. He glanced around, making sure their half of the rooftop was still empty, and chanced it.
He pushed Hollander up against the wall and kissed him. It was an angry kiss. He was worried Hollander would freak out, but he kissed back just as harshly. Ilya knew this was a terrible idea, but he couldn't resist it. He couldn't go back to Russia– back to his father– without doing this one more time.
Hollander lasted about twenty seconds longer than Ilya had anticipated before he was breaking the kiss and shoving him away.
"Are you fucking insane?" Hollander hissed, looking more panicked than Ilya had ever seen him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Ilya smirked at him. Shane glared back. "No. We can't. Go to bed, Rozanov."
Ilya's smile faded. Shane turned on his heel and walked away without looking back.
Even though he'd expected this, the rejection still fucking hurt. It was strange. Shane Hollander shouldn't have been able to cut him this deep. Ilya never really understood his emotions when Shane was involved.
Unconsciously, Ilya had started picking at the plaster over his words. He ripped it off and stared at his words, like looking at Hollander's handwriting on his skin would give him all the answers. Ilya blinked down at his wrist, and suddenly, everything came into focus.
He was in love with Shane Hollander.
It wasn't funny, but Ilya started laughing. The worst part was that after he'd had a few seconds to come to terms with this earth-shaking realisation, Ilya wasn't even shocked. Of course he'd fallen in love with Shane Hollander. He was just so… Shane Hollander. It was inevitable. Literally written into the stars and their skin. From the moment he'd said Ilya's words, there was only one way this was going to end.
Fuck. How could Ilya have let this happen? It was too fast. They barely even knew each other. He was better than this. He should have been able to outsmart his own emotions. Maybe he'd actually avoided Shane instead of fucking him, he could have pushed this back a decade or two. Maybe if he'd decided to just actually tell Shane that they're soulmates, Shane would cut him out of his life and Ilya wouldn't have to make the decision himself.
He could try and tell himself he was going to block Shane's number and move on with his life, but he knew that was impossible. Shane was just magnetic. Ilya was in his thrall now, and there was no going back.
He'd done this to himself. He'd fucked too close to the sun, and he was just going to have to live with the consequences.
September 2012– Montreal
Ilya's hands were shaking. The Bears had won the game in overtime, but Ilya couldn't care less about that right now. Shane Hollander was waiting for him in a hotel room six floors above his own, and Ilya was pretty sure he was going to throw up.
He was actually nervous. It was so fucking stupid. This wasn't the first time they'd hooked up. If you counted their sexting (which Ilya definitely did), it wasn't even the first time they'd hooked up since his rooftop realisation. But now, Ilya felt like he was hiding some big secret from him. Ilya wished he understood his own thought process behind that feeling. It was probably less big than the other secret he was keeping from Hollander.
Somehow, he'd managed to not talk to Shane at all. It had been almost four years at this point. Ilya was honestly impressed with his resolve. The answer he'd given Shane after their first endeavor into sexting– something they'd recreated many times at this point– had apparently been enough. He'd never asked him again.
Ilya knew that, eventually, Shane would find out that they're soulmates. He knew that the fallout of that would be massive and terrible. Shane would probably never speak to him again once he found out Ilya knew this entire time. Ilya would be able to handle that when the time came, but he wanted to have whatever Shane would give him until then.
08/09/12 23:05
Jane: Are you coming?
Of course Hollander was going to complain about Ilya being five minutes behind schedule. He was always so fucking eager.
Ilya: someone should teach you some patience
Jane: I can handle this by myself if you're going to be like this.
Ilya: lol
Jane: Fuck you mean 'lol'?
Ilya: lol is acronym for laugh out loud
Ilya: i am laughing at you
Jane: I know what it means, dipshit.
Jane: Just get up here before I change my mind.
He wouldn't change his mind, but Ilya hauled ass to the elevators anyway. His nerves hadn't quite faded, but he also knew that there was no way he wasn't going to Shane's room tonight. He might as well bite the bandaid, or whatever the phrase was.
Shane opened the door after one knock. He rolled his eyes when he saw Ilya standing there, smiling. Then, he grabbed Ilya by the shoulders and pulled him into the room.
"You are the worst." Shane muttered as he tugged Ilya's shirt off in between heated kisses. "I hate you."
It probably should have stung, but then Shane was dropping to his knees, and Ilya had a hard time believing him. Shane scowled as he pulled Ilya's pants down. His face was already flushed, and his freckles were standing out more than usual.
Ilya really tried not to think about Shane Hollander's freckles. It was a self-preservation mechanism, really. If he spent longer than a second looking at them, Ilya was pretty sure he'd never look away. He would happily spend the rest of his life memorizing the patterns on Shane's skin.
Fuck. He really was in love with him, wasn't he? This was disgusting.
Thankfully, Hollander wrapped his lips around Ilya's cock and blessedly, Ilya's ability to form coherent thoughts faded away. He was so fucking good at sucking cock. Ilya had fucked his way through half of Boston, but nobody gave head like Shane did. There was something desperate about it, like he was afraid Ilya would stop him. What a ridiculous thought.
Too soon, Shane was pulling back. When Ilya made a betrayed noise, he just looked up with an amused expression. "Did you think I was going to make you come? You're here to fuck me, Rozanov. Did you forget that?"
Holy fucking shit. Just when Ilya thought he could anticipate whatever Hollander was going to throw at him.
Ilya just nodded, his mouth slightly open. Shane pulled his shirt off, and tugged Ilya's pants down all the way. When he got up off his knees, Ilya couldn't resist the urge to pull Shane in and kiss him.
Shane was growing visibly desperate a lot faster than normal. He was panting into Ilya's mouth, letting out little moans every time Ilya brushed a hand across his skin. Yeah, Ilya needed to be inside him, like, yesterday.
When he pulled away, Shane fucking whined. What had gotten into him tonight? He was usually easy, but he'd never been this fucking desperate for Ilya.
"I'm already prepped." Shane admitted, his cheeks flushed, and well, Ilya had his answer. "You were taking a long time."
Bad excuse. Ilya had been barely seven minutes late. Shane had planned this. Ilya wanted to call him on it, but he wanted to fuck him more.
He turned Shane around and shoved him on the bed face-first. Shane went willingly. He practically shook his ass in Ilya's face while he put the condom on and grabbed the lube. He let out an absolutely sinful noise when Ilya grabbed him harshly by the hips and shoved two lubed fingers inside his hole.
Shane's face was buried in the comforter, but Ilya could hear every noise he made like a gunshot. He prepped Shane himself, ignoring his mumbled protests that he was ready. It was less out of concern for Shane, and more out of concern for his own dignity. He needed to give himself a second to calm down, because he was pretty sure he'd blow his load in about two seconds if he tried to enter Shane now.
Once he was sure he could last at least a couple of minutes, Ilya pulled his fingers out of Shane and wiped them on the carefully laid-out towel. Wow. He'd really planned this.
"Are you ever going to fuck me?" Shane complained as Ilya lined himself up.
Just to be a dick, Ilya pushed in almost completely in one thrust. Shane gasped, tensing around him. He relaxed almost immediately, and Ilya set a bruising pace.
Shane turned to mush under him pretty much immediately. He was saying a lot of words, but Ilya really didn't have the brainpower to translate. All of the blood his brain usually used for thinking was currently in his dick.
He lasted longer than Ilya had been expecting. Not that Ilya had been expecting him to last long at all. Still, the feeling of Shane coming on his cock was fucking insane, and he wasn't too far behind him.
"F–" Ilya gasped as he came, stopping whatever he was about to say at the last possible moment. Shane looked back at him, eyes wide and pupils dilated. His cheeks were flushed, and he made a disappointed noise when Ilya slid out.
Ilya quickly discarded the used condom in the bathroom trash can, and grabbed a towel for Hollander. He slipped his boxers back on and chucked the towel right at Shane's head.
"Thanks, dickhead." Hollander rolled his eyes, but used the towel to clean himself off. "You can get the fuck out now."
Ilya wasn't offended. He actually really wanted to get the fuck out. Aftercare was the part of sex he was the worst at. He wasn't enough of an asshole to leave his partners without it, but it always felt too intimate. If he stayed to help Hollander clean up, he'd probably do something he'd regret. He'd already gotten way too close for comfort tonight, he didn't need more of an incentive to talk.
Shane was quiet as Ilya put his clothes back on. They weren't exactly the type to say goodbye– not that Ilya could if he wanted to– so he started to head for the door as soon as he wouldn't get arrested for public indecency.
A hand on his wrist stopped him. When he turned back, Hollander leaned up and kissed him like he hadn't just told Ilya to get the fuck out two seconds ago.
For a moment, Ilya let himself pretend this was normal. He cupped Shane's face in his hands and smiled into the kiss. Then, when the feeling in his chest started to become too much to ignore, he pulled away.
Shane tried to chase the kiss. His eyes widened when he realised what he just did, and he took a step backward. It was so cute that Ilya was suddenly smiling. He couldn't make himself stop, even as he turned on his heel and left the room as fast as he possibly could.
Ilya was honestly kind of in shock as he walked back to his hotel room. He'd known he was in love with Hollander in theory, but actually experiencing his own emotions was mind-boggling. This wasn't something he was used to. He was Russian, for fucks sake. If his father found out he was feeling things, he'd probably beat the shit out of him.
Impulsivity was practically Ilya's defining characteristic. He'd been making terrible and dangerous decisions for his entire life. None were quite as terrible and dangerous as Shane Hollander.
It wasn't smart to sleep with someone you're keeping secrets from, especially not secrets about them, but nobody had ever accused Ilya of being intelligent. Maybe, if he was a better person, he'd pull the plug. He'd tell Shane everything and let him go.
Ilya wasn't that person though. He really wasn't. He barely even knew Shane, but he loved him too much to let him go now. There was no universe in which this ended well, but there was also no way Ilya could turn back now. This was going up in flames anyway. He might as well douse his entire life in kerosene in the meantime.
God. The Ilya who'd made the decision not to speak to Hollander would have been so disappointed in him.
January 2013– Montreal
01/01/13 00:02
Lily: happy new year
Shane blinked at his phone. He'd just gotten home from Comeau's party, and it was hard to think through the alcohol, but Shane was pretty sure that was a text from Ilya Rozanov. He blinked again, and it didn't go away.
He wasn't entirely sure if he was hallucinating or not. He didn't think he was at the midnight Happy New Year text level of friendship with Ilya. Don't get him wrong, Shane texted Ilya probably a concerning amount, but about 90% of their conversations were sex-related.
Still, it was nice to know Ilya was thinking about him at whatever crowded party he was at. It made Shane's heart feel a little bit funny.
01/01/13 01:34
Shane: Happy New Year!
Shane: Hope you are having fun.
Lily: i definitely am
Ilya sent a photo of himself in the thick of a crowd, a girl with curly blonde hair Shane had seen with him in paparazzi photos before hanging off his arm. He was smiling and they were both wearing a pair of stupid 2013 glasses. The design didn't even make sense. Why would they make numbers without enough places to put eyes into sunglasses? Shane was suddenly really pissed off. He didn't bother replying.
He wondered if that girl was Ilya's soulmate. She was pretty. Perfect. Exactly everything Ilya was expected to go for. Exactly the opposite of Shane.
Fuck. He didn't even know why he was thinking about this. It wasn't like he was with Ilya. Even the idea of that was laughable. He didn't even like Ilya. Besides, he'd been photographed with this girl a couple of times. He wouldn't have continued… whatever it was he and Shane were doing if he'd found his soulmate.
Shane was glad he'd gone home early. His words felt itchy and his skin felt two sizes too small for his body and his mind was spinning. He needed a shower. He needed to not think about Ilya Rozanov's stupid fucking New Years glasses.
He practically stormed into the bathroom, flicking the shower on. The water was too hot when Shane stepped under the spray. He didn't bother turning it down.
The alcohol was making his head feel heavy. He probably shouldn't have drank so much. They started a two week long road trip tomorrow. Or technically today. Thank god their first game wasn't until the 2nd. Shane was pretty sure he'd die if he had to play hockey tomorrow.
It was probably going to be an easy couple of games. The Voyageurs were at the top of their game this year. It was only Shane's second season, but there were serious talks about them making a run for the cup. They'd been on a winning streak since their last against Boston.
And then, he was thinking about Ilya and the way his hands had felt against Shane's skin. They hadn't seen each other in three months, but he'd basically gotten Shane addicted to his dick– withdrawal symptoms and everything. Ilya occupied a permanent corner in his mind. He was so intertwined in Shane's life that even if he wanted to stop thinking about him, he'd never be able to.
When Shane opened his eyes, he was hard. He didn't even waste time being pissed off about it. He was too drunk and too lonely to care. He seriously needed to get a girlfriend, but right now, he just wanted to get off. If he needed to think about Ilya to do that, then sue him.
He didn't bother easing himself into it. He just wrapped a hand around his cock and started stroking.
It wasn't enough. He was stroking himself in all the right places, but he couldn't quite get himself off that edge. Shane wasn't sure what was wrong. Normally, he had the opposite problem.
Maybe he needed to try a different approach. He thought about the way Ilya's fingers had felt inside of him more often than was probably acceptable.
He didn't have lube, so he spit on his fingers. It was disgusting and probably not lubricating enough, but he was genuinely too horny to care.
Doing this in the shower was precarious, but Shane made it work. He slid a finger inside himself with one hand and jerked himself off with the other. Hopefully he didn't fall, because he wouldn't be able to catch himself. Wouldn't that be an interesting 9-1-1 call?
Ilya is so much better at this, Shane begrudgingly thought as he tried to find his prostate. He could only just reach it. It was barely a brush of his finger, but combined with the stimulation on his dick, it was enough to make Shane come.
His orgasm was deeply unsatisfying. Instead of feeling sated, Shane couldn't stop thinking about how much better it would have felt if Rozanov was the one who got him there.
Shane was pissed off as he got out of the shower and dried himself off. What a fucking way to start the year.
He should have made his New Year's resolution to end this rivals-with-benefits thing he had going on with Rozanov. The deeper into it they got, the more the risk outweighed the reward. Well, maybe not in reality, but definitely in theory.
There was just no way this was going to end well. Maybe Shane should have just blocked Ilya's number and moved on before he got himself hurt.
Maybe Shane was too deep into this for him to care anymore.
November 2013– Boston
"Heading out?" Hayden asked. He was settled on one of the beds in their hotel room, watching some action movie.
"Yeah, just for a bit." Shane kept his face carefully neutral. He couldn't let anything too real show. He couldn't let Hayden know what was about to happen. He already felt guilt and shame and fucked-up anticipation about going to Ilya's apartment. If Hayden actually knew what Shane was going to do… Shane didn't want to think about his reaction. "Meeting a friend."
Hayden grinned immediately. Of course he did. "If you say so."
"Just a friend."
Hayden winked. Shane felt his face grow hot. "I won't wait up."
"It's not–" Shane closed his eyes and hoped he wasn't visibly blushing. "It's not that type of friend. I'll be back soon."
"That's disappointing. You seriously need to get laid."
"I'm fine." Shane pulled on his jacket and fled the room.
He shouldn't be doing this. The Voyageurs had only arrived in Boston that morning. Their game was tomorrow, which meant that after a short practice, the team had the evening free. Shane should have spent the night focusing on how to beat the Bears, but Ilya had asked him to come over. They'd argued for over an hour about how it was a terrible idea, and eventually Shane gave in. Because of course he did.
Logically, Shane knew how stupid it was, but logic and Ilya didn't exactly coexist in his mind.
Ilya lived a short cab ride away from the hotel, and Shane spent the entire drive practically vibrating in his seat. He was terrified of being seen, but he was also scared of being in Ilya's penthouse. This probably should have been the point where Shane ended things. It was getting too personal. Mostly, they stuck to texting and exchanging photos (which were immediately deleted). Their few in person trysts in the past had all been in hotel rooms. The fact that Ilya was inviting him into his home so easily made Shane feel a little lightheaded.
He pulled his baseball cap low over his face as he stood on the apartment steps, waiting for Ilya to buzz him up. It didn't take long, and Shane rode the elevator all the way to the top. He told himself that he would finally talk to Ilya tonight. He told himself that this was absolutely the last time anything would happen between them. He told himself that he actually meant it this time.
Ilya opened the door in low-hanging sweatpants and no shirt. Immediately, all thoughts of talking left Shane's mind.
"Hey." Shane stepped inside. He wasn't given much time to appreciate the interior design, because Ilya's mouth was on his before the door was fully closed.
Ilya kissed him deeply, grabbing Shane by the waist with one hand and cupping his face with the other. Shane melted into the kiss, wrapping his hands around Ilya's shoulders and pulling him impossibly closer. It was oddly the most gentle kiss they'd ever shared.
That didn't last for long, though. Quickly, Ilya had Shane backed up against the wall. Everything kind of blended together after that point. Somehow, they walked to the couch. Ilya pulled his sweatpants off and stripped Shane, throwing their clothes onto the living room floor. He pulled Shane into his lap, and then they were kissing and grinding and fuck Shane was already coming probably less than five minutes in.
Sometimes, he forgot how much he craved this during those months he didn't see Ilya. He'd never been able to get this feeling from other people, and trust him, he tried. He couldn't even get the same satisfaction from himself. The whole thing was infuriatingly hot. Ilya was infuriatingly hot. Shane had long since realized he was simply incapable of making good decisions around him. One crooked smirk, and Shane was fighting the desire to sink to his knees.
He didn't need to fight it now, though. Shane slid off Ilya's lap and dropped to his knees, feeling the impact of the rough hardwood. He'd probably have bruises for a few days. He honestly couldn't bring himself to care. It would be the only mark he'd have to remember this by.
Ilya's legs widened to accommodate Shane. He could see his own spend all over Ilya's dick and stomach. It was fucking hot. He slowly started kissing his way down Ilya's stomach and cleaning up his own cum, looking up at Ilya through his eyelashes. Ilya looked starstruck. Once Shane was mostly done, Ilya pulled him up and kissed him messily. He moaned at the taste of Shane on his own tongue.
The kiss ended quickly, and then Shane was back between Ilya's thighs again. Getting Ilya in his mouth was second nature now. The weight of him was familiar, and Shane reveled in it. Ilya had always teased Shane for being so responsive, but he always came apart under so beautifully Shane's tongue.
Ilya's hand tangled in Shane's hair as he sucked on Ilya's tip. He brought a hand up to play with Ilya's balls, and slowly started to deepthroat him. This wasn't something Shane had ever done before but (embarrassingly) he had practiced. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but the fucked-out look on Ilya's face when Shane pressed his nose against his pelvis made everything worth it.
"Fuck's sake, Hollander." Ilya breathed out, his hand tightening in Shane's hair.
Shane's entire body went cold. He pulled off Rozanov's cock, falling backwards. He caught himself with one hand at the last second. "What did you just say?"
"I–" Rozanov started, before his face went slack with terror. "Fuck."