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Ilya wasn’t going to the Olympics this year.
It was the best thing. The right thing.
The safe thing.
They both knew it.
He said he didn’t care.
“Why I need medal? I am best player in world, everyone knows. Getting gold would be, ah- ‘rubbing it in’.”
He seemed genuinely happy when Shane’s Team Canada practices started.
“You look good in red, zherebets.”
He wiggled his way out of actually talking about it every time Shane tried.
“Hm- probably best for our relationship I don’t come home with gold, hm?” Ilya teased when Shane tried to broach the subject for the eight-hundredth time. “You are jealous type.”
“Ilya, you can be honest with m-”
“I not want to make worse your, uh- ‘inferiority complex’? Is that how you say?”
“I’m being se-”
“Shh, rodnoy. I not want silly medal come between us. So I let you have. My gift to you.”
“Ilya, if you-”
“No need to thank me, malysh. I am generous man-” Grinning, Ilya rubbed Shane’s back, his hand drifting lower, trailing down to his ass. “But, if you insist, I prefer action over talking.”
But Shane noticed how Ilya’s face fell every time Russia was in the news. Saw how he’d frown and shake his head before scrolling to the next news story or flipping the channel. The tension between loving his country and hating what it was doing, what it had become. Between it being home and knowing that, really, he’d never be welcome there.
“He just won’t talk to me about it-” Shane confided in Rose one night over cocktails when she was in Ottawa for a film shoot. “Every time I bring it up, he shuts me down. He says he doesn’t care, but…”
Rose shrugged and popped a pretzel in her mouth. “Maybe talking isn’t what he needs.”
“Ugh. You sound exactly like him.”
“Well, maybe you should listen.” Rose said. “Maybe this is Ilya’s way of telling you what he needs.”
Groaning, Shane rubbed his face. “Trust me, Ilya has no problem ‘expressing his needs.’”
“He’s his own person. Maybe you would need to talk about it out in the open, but maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he needs something else right now. Try thinking about what he’s asking for, rather than pushing for what you think is best.”
So that’s how Shane Hollander ended up in a crisp, straight-from-the-warehouse Boston Bears jersey. He’d told Illya he was having a shower (alone) then tore off the plastic as carefully and quietly as he could. They’d taken a few weeks to sneak off to the cabin together before Shane had to fly to Italy for the winter games, and Shane could hear the television Ilya insisted they needed in the bedroom blaring over the running shower.
Shane felt a long-forgotten rush as he pulled the jersey on. The new, slightly chemically factory-fresh smell brought him back to when his parents got him his favourite player’s jersey for his ninth birthday. Shane basically lived in that thing for the next year. Admiring himself in the mirror, Shane ran his hands over the black-and-yellow fabric, pausing to trace the large ‘B’ at the centre. He’d made the right call pairing it with black boxer briefs. He turned around and a thrill lurched through him when he saw ROZANOV with an 81 splashed across his back.
He didn’t expect wearing Ilya’s name and number to be so hot. But seeing himself in his man’s jersey, dressed like an adoring fan, made a flushing heat rise up from the pit of his stomach and his cock thicken. The thought of being devoted, marked, of playing the starstruck stan to Ilya’s celebrity, of being able to let go and worship Ilya’s body and athletic prowess in a way not possible for ‘Shane Hollander’ made him dizzy.
ROZANOV
81
The final embrace for the fanboy he was always meant to be, no longer ashamed of it now. In fact, he was already rock-hard at the thought of worshipping Ilya.
Shane felt strangely giddy and nervous, even a little silly, as he quietly stepped out of the bathroom and leaned against the doorframe.
“Wow- Ilya Rozanov- is that really you?” He asked innocently, biting his lip to keep from laughing.
“Shane? What are y-” Ilya’s mouth fell open and Shane watched his face change from confused to surprised to enticed. “What? What is th-”
“Mr. Rozanov, it’s so great to meet you.” Shyly, Shane tipped his chin and looked at Ilya from under his lashes. “Wow- you’re even taller in person. And cuter.”
“Mm? Cute?”
“Sorry- I’m just nervous…” Shane giggled. “It’s not every day you meet the-" he paused, holding Ilya's gaze, "best player in the NHL.”
Dumstruck, eyes bulging out of his head, Ilya gaped at Shane.
“I’ve been following you since your rookie season.”
Ilya flushed red and tugged on his curls. “That long, hm? So dedicated.”
“I’m very loyal. You probably hear this all the time, but-” hesitating, Shane played coy, letting his eyes rove over Ilya's bare torso and the growing bludge in his grey sweatpants before meeting his eyes again, “I’m your biggest fan.” Shane spun around then peered over his shoulder as sexily as he could. “Would you sign my jersey, Mr. Rozanov?”
Ilya made a choking noise when he realized it was his name stretched across the back and he stared like a Russian moose caught in a semi-truck’s headlights.
“That- that’s my-” Shaking his head in disbelief, Ilya’s wide face was bright scarlet under his scruff.
“Your jersey is the only one I’d ever wear.” Shane breathed and stuck out his tongue. “Sign it? Please?”
At that, Ilya jumped out of bed and grabbed a sharpie from his nightstand.
“Anything for my ‘biggest fan’-” he said, backing Shane up into the bathroom door and placing two large, trembling hands on his waist. Ilya’s lips shook and he swallowed loudly as he squeezed Shane’s sides and rubbed him slowly up and down, “zaychik-shayba moyey mechty. ”
That was a phrase Shane hadn’t heard before, but he was too distracted by Ilya’s face and wandering hands to ask for a translation.
Shane had never seen Ilya like this before, shaking, eyes wide, like he couldn’t really believe what he was seeing. His usual cool, cocky confidence was wavering, his facade of bravado and indifference cracking under the absolute mindfuck of Shane Hollander in nearly nothing but his jersey. Shane did his best to turn the laughter boiling inside him into a mischievous smile as he watched Ilya’s brain fry trying to make sense of what was in front of him.
“Where you want me to sign?” Ilya asked breathlessly, his accent thickening, still feeling Shane up, moving higher to his pecs then back down to massage his obliques with his thumbs.
Turning around again, Shane braced himself against the bathroom door with his arms and arched his back. “Next to your number?”
“Great choice- mm, very nice-” Ilya ripped the cap off the sharpie with his teeth and spat it across the room. Shane would have scolded him if the sight hadn’t sent all the blood rushing to his own cock and he gasped when Ilya grabbed his ass roughly to steady him.
Heat pulsing through him, Shane pushed his hips further out, grinding his ass into the front of Ilya’s sweatpants and finding his erection.
A sharp breath came from behind Shane. “I know you are nervous, fanboy-” he said, tightening his grip on Shane’s hip and pressing his already-hard cock firm and slow against his ass, “But you must be still, or I mess up. Jersey not worth anything with scribbles, yes?”
“As if I’d ever sell it- I don’t even think I’ll take it off-”
Ilya groaned as Shane felt him sign his back. “It look good, my name belongs on you-” Pulling himself out, Ilya tapped his hard-on against Shane’s ass then lined it up with his crack. “And he belongs in you, I think.”
The feeling of Ilya’s hot, throbbing cock pushing against him, nothing but his briefs between them, pushed Shane over the edge and he spun around and kissed Ilya hard and fast.
That familiar lopsided grin spread across Ilya’s face as he kissed Shane back hungrily, amused by his desperation, teeth followed by tongue, warm and wet. Ilya pinned Shane against the door and dipped down to nibble on his neck.
“How about another signature, hm? What you think of that?” He huffed in Shane’s ear, his trademark cockiness returning.
“Ah- Mr. Rozanov- please-”
Ilya yanked up the front of Shane’s jersey and rubbed his hard abs. “Here, yes?”
“Yeah-” Shane was panting now. “I’ll take your autograph anywhere you want to give it to me.”
Ilya scrawled a sloppier-than-usual ‘I-R-’ across Shane’s stomach then pushed his leg between Shane’s knees. “I have other things to give, hm?” He chuckled and rubbed his thigh along Shane’s dick.
“Mr. Rozanov-” Gasping, Shane grinded his cock into Ilya’s thigh.
“Yes, malen'kiy bober, take what you need- get off on me-”
Ilya’s accent thickened when he was horned up, and it drove Shane wild. Pressed so tightly together Shane could feel the words hum from within Ilya’s chest, roll from the back of his throat, sliding gracefully from his native Russian to English, both making Shane’s toes curl.
Mewling softly, Shane let his head fall against his shoulder as his hips rolled with the same rhythm as Ilya’s thigh, meeting and parting, sending sparks up his spine.
“So easy for me, snezhnyy angel-” Ilya nuzzled the side of Shane’s head and kissed his ear. “So responsive.”
Ilya was right. Shane was going to nut if they didn’t stop, and he was nowhere near finished with their game.
“Mr. Rozanov- can I please suck your cock?” Whimpering, Shane clutched Ilya’s shoulders, “Please?”
“Hm? Say again- my English still not so good.”
“Please, please can I suck your cock?”
“Again?”
“Please, Mr. Rozanov. I want to blow the best player in the league. Let me suck you off, please?”
“Chert voz'mi-” Ilya muttered, releasing Shane and tossing the sharpie in the same direction he spat the cap, his other hand wrapped around his own stiff cock. “As I said, anything for you, zaychik-shayba. Get on your knees for me.”
There was that new phrase again- but Shane was way too excited to get Ilya’s cock in his mouth to ask for a translation. Transfixed by the sight of Ilya touching himself, tugging on the top of his dick, rolling his palm over the head, Shane slowly sank down to his knees.
Ilya sat down on the edge of the bed and spread his legs wide, holding his erection out invitingly. Shane practically drooled as he crawled forward. Ilya's cock was really something else.
When Shane got between his knees, Ilya reached down and cupped his face, caressing his cheek with his thumb.
“Prekrasnyy-” he whispered.
“Can I blow you now, Mr. Rozanov?” Shane licked his lips, eyes on the glistening head of Ilya’s cock.
“Da, please-”
A low rumble came from Ilya’s chest as Shane licked from the base of his cock up to the top, lingering in the ridge where the shaft meets the head, then flicking his tongue across the slit. The taste of salty precum made Shane shudder with want, and he gently kissed the head over and over, then nuzzled it, revelling in the intoxicating scent of Ilya’s musk.
“You taste so good-” Shane muttered as he opened his mouth and encircled Ilya with his lips, teasing the crown and tasting more precum.
Ilya groaned and placed a large hand on Shane’s upper back, over his own name. “My groupie-”
Humming in agreement, Shane opened his mouth wider, sucking Ilya in ernest. He loved having his mouth full of Ilya liked this, and his eyes rolled as he sunk lower. The weight of Ilya on his tongue, the way his thick head breached the top of his throat, the shaking breaths he made on the pullback made Shane’s head swim. He couldn't help but squeeze his aching cock over his briefs.
“You are playing with yourself down there, fanboy?” Ilya rasped, giving Shane that show-stopping crooked grin. “Let me see.”
Shane bent backward, one hand behind him holding him up, the other pumping his dick, and looked at Ilya. The way Ilya’s eyes traced over him, moving from his dick to his thighs, to his face made Shane blush and almost giggle from nervousness.
“How’s this?” He asked, rucking up the jersey and flexing, showing off his abs for Ilya. They'd always been his weakness.
“Perfection.” Flushed, his dick drooling in his hand, Ilya jerked himself while watching Shane roll his stomach like a stripper.
Shane was a show-off- he couldn’t help it. And Ilya’s lustful eyes fixed on him made Shane work harder for it, thrusting into his hand and pulling the jersey higher.
“Don’t take it off-” Ilya said, bending forward to rub Shane’s stomach then trace a finger over his ridged abs. “The shorts- yes, get those away. But leave the jersey on.”
Smiling, Shane stood up and wiggled out of his boxer-briefs then hopped up on Ilya. Their size difference got Shane crazy hard, and sitting in Ilya's lap made it extra noticable. How he could easily slot on Ilya’s thighs and right into his arms, how his wide hands could practically cover one of Shane’s asscheeks. He was grinding on Ilya now like he was auditioning for Magic Mike, holding their cocks together, smearing against each other, wet with their mixed precum.
Ilya grabbed Shane’s ass with both hands, pushing himself so hard into Shane’s his eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head.
“How up-close and personal is this meet-and-greet gonna get?” Shane gasped when Ilya shifted so his cock ran up the cleft of his ass.
“As close and personal as you want, dorogoy-”
“Fuck me?”
Grinning, Ilya held Shane tight with one arm as he leaned forward to snatch the half-empty lube bottle off the nightstand. “Mm? Say again?”
“Would you please fuck me, Mr. Rozanov?”
“Everyone say they have best fans-” Ilya dribbled lube on to his fingers then circled one around the rim of Shane’s hole, “but for me, is true.”
Shane moaned when Ilya’s first finger pressed in and tugged gently.
“Good?”
“God- fuck- yes!”
“More?-”
“Please- please, Ilya-”
A low laugh vibrated from Ilya’s chest all through Shane. “First name basis now?”
“Ah- Mr. Rozanov-”
“Prehaps I need better, mm…what is word?” Ilya pushed his finger up and curled it, hitting Shane’s spot in the exact way to make him shout and throw his head back, “Boundaries with my fans?”
“Mr.- Oh-” The slow circles of Ilya’s finger sent waves of pleasure rattling through Shane from the core of his ass up to the top of his head.
“How is?”
“Fantastic-”
A second finger joined the first and Shane had to grabbed Ilya’s shoulders to keep himself upright.
“Mr. Roz-an-OV!”
“Yes, milyy, yes, let me inside Sha- ah, I mean, ‘number-one-fan,’” Ilya twisted his wrist then scissored fingers. “Relax, yes? I not wanting to hurt you-”
“You won’t- oh-”
“Nice and slow- get you all open for me-”
“Il- er- Mr. Rozanov- I’m ready?”
“Ah-” Ilya’s hand slowed, pumping deep and firm a few more times before pulling out with a tantalizing drag . “Want to ride the Russian stallion?”
Committed to not breaking character first, Shane held back the sarcastic comment on his tongue and lifted his hips so Ilya could line himself up.
“Giddey-up-” Shane laughed as he lowered himself. That first breach was one of his favourite parts, burning for just a moment before slipping easily in. Stallion was right- even well-prepared, Shane had to pace himself with Ilya.
They both gasped softly when Ilya nudged inside, adoration in his eyes as he swore under his breath.
“So tight-”
“Or maybe- you're- just big?” Shane swiveled his hips experimentally, feeling him from every angle, then began bouncing up and down.
He loved this. He fucking loved this. Ilya’s hands all over him, his strong thighs underneath him.
It was like skating. Like Shane didn’t have to think, that his body just knew what to do, how to make Ilya feel good. How to make himself feel good. Both together and apart, moving with and against each other. Breathes and thrusts and shivers combining and separating, that same trust Shane had in the ice letting him fall forward, fearless, into Ilya.
“Lyobovnik- Shane-” Ilya tilted Shane’s face up and pressed their lips together. “This is perfect- but-”
“Ah- Ilya-”
“But- I want to see my name on you-”
“Fuck-”
“I want to watch you come from my cock- with my name on your back-”
The thought alone nearly made Shane blow his load and he quickly pulled off Ilya and on his hands and knees on the bed. Ilya was behind him immediately, slapping his erection against Shane's ass.
“I can go in?”
“Yeah- yeah-”
Ilya grunted loudly as he pushed in, filling Shane thoroughly. “I love you, malysh, sakharok, zaichonok-” Heaving, Ilya held Shane by the hips with one hand while the other ran over the back of the jersey.
“Ya- ya tozhe tebya lyublyu-” Shane panted, his eyes squeezed tight, teetering on the edge of the coming, red hot pulses throbbing from his prostate to the base of his cock, “bol'she vsego na svete.”
Ilya made a studdering cry then folded forward and sucked on the skin beneath Shane’s ear.
“Rozanov suit you-” He huffed into Shane's hair. “Shane Rozanov-”
A different kind of pleasure, or wanting, rocked through Shane. “What about ‘Hollander-Rozanov?”
“Even better-” Groaning, Ilya pressed kisses into the back of Shane’s neck.
“Ilya- I- I’m gonna-”
“Come, zaichonok-” Ilya’s hand snaked around Shane’s waist and found his cock, “come for the best fucking hockey player in the world-”
That did it.
Shane was yipping and gasping, spurting into Ilya’s fist, clenching around the cock twitching in his ass.
Louder than the screaming sirens from a score, more thrilling than a hat trick, better than the crowd shouting his name-
They stayed like that for a while, Ilya draped over Shane and softening inside him, coating his shoulders with nuzzles and kisses, murmuring sweet Russian nothings that Shane’s dick-fried brain was too jumbled to translate.
Eventually, Ilya pulled out carefully and flopped down on his side. He was red and sweaty like after a game and Shane melted when his face split in a lazy, lopsided half-smile, his eyes hazy and sex-drunk.
“Mm- ya tebya obozhayu, moy zaychik-shayba-” he sighed lovingly.
“What’s that one mean?”
“Mm-” Ilya yawned and stretched. “You try to work it out first.”
His brain slowly coming back online, Shane cuddled closer. “Shayba- that’s puck, right?”
“Mhm, very good.”
“The other one, zay-chik? I don’t know that one…”
“Think about it, Shanushka.”
“Zaychik-puck…”
“Remember, adjective goes after noun for Russian.”
“Puck-zaychik…puck-zay-”
The horrible realization hit Shane like a stick to a helmetless head.
“PUCK BUNNY?!” He snapped, nearly jumping off the bed.
Giggling mischievously, Ilya shrugged.
“Oh no! No, no, no- I am not a puck bunny!”
“What is a person who bounces on a players dick while wearing a jersey?” Ilya yanked Shane back down against his chest and gave him a squeeze. “Is his puck bunny.”
“That’s awful, Ilya-”
“You bounce on my dick, in my jersey-” Ilya stroked Shane’s back, tracing his name with his finger, “you are my puck bunny. I not make the rules!”
Shane groaned and hid his smile in Ilya’s chest.
Shane Hollander- a puck bunny? Never.
Ilya Rozanov’s puck bunny though?...
Maybe, just once in awhile.