Chapter Text
The first time Shane Hollander met Ilya Rozanov was after one of the best games of his career.
He had played out of his mind that night. Two goals, one assist, clean skating with barely any mistakes. The kind of game that followed him into interviews and handshakes and a blur of congratulatory smiles he barely remembered returning. By the time the after-party rolled around, Shane felt wrung out and overstimulated, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin.
That was when someone told him Ilya Rozanov was there.
Shane was certain he had misheard. Rozanov had retired more than ten years ago. He was someone Shane had grown up watching on grainy replays and highlight reels his parents used to rewind over and over. His posters had been on Shane’s bedroom wall before Shane had his first heat.
And now he was standing across the room, tall and gorgeous and unmistakable.
Shane stood there for a full minute before forcing himself to move. His palms were damp by the time he reached him.
“Mr. Rozanov?” Shane said, his voice steadier than he felt. “I’m Shane Hollander. I’m a huge fan.”
He held out his hand automatically. Rozanov looked at it, not dismissively, but with a slow, measuring pause that made Shane’s stomach flip. Then his gaze lifted directly on him. Shane had to resist the urge to step back.
Ilya took his hand.
His grip was firm, confident, like he never doubted his place anywhere.
“I know who you are,” Ilya said.
Shane blinked. “You do?”
“I watched the game,” Ilya continued. His accent was thicker than Shane had expected, rough around the edges. “You read the defense well.”
Shane’s heart kicked. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“You steal from me.”
Shane let out a small, startled laugh. “I do?”
“The edge work on the boards,” Ilya said. “You fake the pass, pull the defender out of position, then drive straight to the crease. That was mine.”
“Oh,” Shane said, warmth creeping up his neck. “I guess I picked it up watching old footage.”
“Not many omegas play like that,” Ilya added, matter-of-fact.
Shane hesitated, unsure whether to bristle or smile. He did both, just a little. “I didn’t know you were watching me that closely.”
Ilya’s mouth curved, subtle but unmistakable.
“Of course,” he said. “I watch all of your games.”
Something settled in Shane’s chest at that. Pride and awe by being acknowledged from his hero.
He smiled, a little too brightly. “I’m glad I didn’t disappoint.”
Ilya’s gaze lingered on him, unblinking.
“You did not,” Ilya said.
He did not look away after that. His gaze moved slowly, openly, taking in Shane’s broad shoulders, the line of his throat trailing all the way to his scent glands hidden underneath his suit. It was assessing. The kind of attention that made Shane acutely aware of his own body.
Shane’s breath caught. He was suddenly, painfully aware of his suppressants he was on, grateful for them in a way that bordered on relief, he would have been releasing enough pheromones to cover the room if he wasn’t on them.
“I—thanks,” Shane said.
Ilya’s eyes flicked back to his face, something unreadable passing through them.
“I will get you a drink,” he said, already turning away, like the decision had been made without discussion.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” Shane started, but Ilya was already moving, cutting through the crowd with ease.
Shane stood there, heartbeat loud in his ears, watching him go. He told himself he was overreacting. That it was nothing more than admiration from an old hero. That the heat curling low in his stomach was leftover adrenaline from the game.
Still, when Ilya returned and pressed a cold glass into his hand, their fingers brushed.
It was brief and accidental.
It did not feel that way.
“Vodka,” Ilya said. “You look like you need something simple.”
Shane huffed out a quiet laugh. “Do I?”
“Yes,” Ilya replied calmly. “You are holding yourself too tight.”
Shane glanced down at the glass, then back up. Ilya was watching him with open interest now, no pretense of subtlety. It made Shane’s pulse stutter.
“Thank you,” Shane said, mostly because it felt rude not to.
He took a sip.
Immediately, he winced, nose scrunching as the sharp burn hit his tongue.
“Ah,” Ilya said, clearly entertained. “So dramatic. It is Canadian vodka. Weak. Not poison.”
Shane shot him a look but took another sip anyway, smaller this time. The burn settled warmer in his chest now, spreading in a way that made his limbs feel lighter, his thoughts a little slower.
He became aware, belatedly, that Ilya was watching him closely.
People kept approaching. Teammates, sponsors, strangers wanting a piece of Shane’s good night, people wanting Ilya’s photographs, business ideas, to make connections. Each time, Ilya answered for him or cut the conversation short with polite indifference. When Shane spoke, Ilya’s attention never wavered. Not to the speaker. To him.
It was unsettling. And strangely flattering.
After the third interruption, Ilya leaned closer, voice low. “Too many people.”
Shane nodded before thinking. “Yeah.”
“Come,” Ilya said. “We go somewhere quieter.”
That should have stopped him. Shane knew that. The warning flared faintly in the back of his mind, dulled by adrenaline and alcohol and the fact that this man was his hero.
Instead, he followed.
They slipped outside into the cold air, the noise of the party dulling behind them. The chill hit Shane immediately, sobering him just enough to notice how close Ilya stood, how easily his presence filled the space.
Ilya glanced at him sideways, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was recalculating something.
“You are twenty-one, correct?”
Shane nodded. “Yeah.”
Ilya let out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “Fuck,” he said. “You are so young.”
He reached into his coat, already pulling out a cigarette. Shane watched him hesitate for half a second before striking the lighter anyway, the flame flaring briefly in the dark.
“I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke here,” Shane said.
Ilya didn’t even look guilty. “I do not give a shit.”
He inhaled, slow and deep, exhaling smoke into the cold night air. It curled between them. Shane should have stepped back. Instead, he stayed where he was, hands tucked into his pockets, heartbeat loud in his ears.
Ilya turned toward him fully now, cigarette balanced between his fingers. “Tell me, Shane Hollander,” he said, voice lower. “You have boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
Shane shook his head. “No.”
Ilya studied his face, like he was looking for something underneath the answer. “Why not?”
Shane hesitated. He did not usually talk about this. He shrugged, eyes dropping to the ground. “Hockey is… it takes everything. There isn’t much room left.”
Ilya snorted softly. “That is what you tell people.”
Shane looked up again. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Ilya said, taking another drag, “that if something matters, you make room. You carve it out. Even when it is inconvenient.”
“And you think I just don’t want it badly enough?”
Ilya’s gaze flicked over him, intentional. “I think you are afraid of wanting wrong thing.”
Shane laughed quietly, more nerves than humor. “You don’t even know me.”
Ilya smiled, knowing. “I know your game. I know your discipline. I know how hard you work not to lose control.”
He leaned in just a little, close enough that Shane could smell smoke and his alpha scent beneath it.
“That kind of restraint,” Ilya continued, “usually means when you finally let go, you fall hard.”
Shane’s throat went dry.
The cigarette burned down between Ilya’s fingers. He flicked it away, crushing it under his boot. When he straightened, his attention was still fixed on Shane.
“You should go inside,” Ilya said lightly. “Before you do something stupid.”
Shane knew that was advice.
He also knew he was not going to take it.
“I don’t want to go inside yet,” Shane said, the defiance surprising even him.
Ilya’s eyebrow lifted, interest sharpening. “Oh?”
He regarded Shane for a moment, then smiled like he had just made up his mind about something. “In that case,” he said lightly, “I have a room upstairs.”
Shane’s stomach dropped.
This was a bad idea and he knew that instantly. The age difference alone should have stopped him and this was Ilya Rozanov. Retired legend. An alpha who carried himself like he had never been told no.
Still, Shane nodded.
Ilya’s grin was pleased. “I go first,” he said. “People see us together, they talk. You come after me. Twenty minutes.”
He leaned forward, whispering his hotel room number in Shane’s ears before walking away.
Shane stood there long after he was gone.
He went back inside the party and got another drink, checking his watch, the time seemed to go by slower now. Conversations slid past him without sticking, someone congratulated him again. Shane smiled when expected, nodded when appropriate, all the while acutely aware of the time.
He knew what an invitation like that meant. He was young, inexperienced, and painfully aware of it. He had never been with anyone. Had never let himself want anyone enough to cross that line.
And Ilya Rozanov was too old for him, too confident and he seemed like he would be too much.
Still, when twenty minutes passed, Shane finished his drink and headed for the elevator.
The hallway upstairs was quiet, carpet muffling his footsteps. He stopped outside the door, pulse racing, then knocked before he could overthink it.
The door opened almost immediately.
Ilya stood there wearing a white robe, hair damp, skin still faintly flushed like he had just stepped out of the shower. His alpha scent filled the doorway now, warm and rich, it was amazing to Shane’s senses, and it hit him all at once.
His mouth went dry.
Ilya looked him over slowly. “You came.”
Shane nodded, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. “Yeah.”
Ilya stepped aside to let him in. The room was dim, Shane barely had time to take it in before the door closed behind him.
Ilya moved closer. Just close enough that Shane’s back met the wall without him realizing how he had gotten there.
Up close, Ilya was overwhelming. Broad shoulders, solid build, the confidence of someone who knew exactly how he was perceived. Still beautiful, especially now at his age.
Shane swallowed hard. “This is such a bad idea.”
“It is,” Ilya said.
His hand came up, thumb settling beneath Shane’s jaw and tilting his face upward. The touch alone sent a shiver through him.
“You are too young,” Ilya murmured, almost to himself. “You are going to get me into trouble.”
Shane barely had time to breathe before Ilya leaned in.
The kiss was nothing like Shane expected. It started slow, Ilya’s mouth warm and sure, like he knew exactly how to take control without overwhelming him. His thumb brushed along Shane’s jaw, grounding him and guiding him closer.
Shane melted into it before he could stop himself.
Ilya deepened the kiss gradually, giving Shane time to follow, to learn the rhythm. When Shane finally did, when he kissed back with clumsy eagerness, Ilya hummed softly against his mouth, pleased.
The world narrowed to that point of contact. To the heat of Ilya’s body, the way his presence pressed in without crowding, the way he kissed like this was something he had always intended to do.
When Ilya finally pulled back, their foreheads stayed close, breaths mingling.
He helped Shane shrug out of his shirt, his movements unhurried. Ilya’s gaze lingered openly now, appreciative, tracing the lines of Shane’s body like he was committing them to memory.
“Fuck,” Ilya muttered, hands settling briefly at Shane’s chest, cupping his chest. “Hollander.”
Shane’s heart was racing, his skin buzzing everywhere Ilya touched. He had never felt this wanted before.
And when Ilya leaned in again, slower this time, his mouth brushing along Shane’s cheek instead of claiming his lips, Shane knew there was no turning back.
The kiss followed again, like Ilya was savoring the moment rather than rushing it. Shane’s hands lifted on instinct, uncertain at first, then settling against the warm skin beneath Ilya’s open robe. The contact made Ilya inhale sharply, a low sound of approval vibrating against Shane’s mouth.
“Mm,” Ilya murmured, hands returning to Shane’s jaw, steady and possessive without being rough. He held Shane there, guiding him.
Testing, Ilya brushed a finger against Shane’s lips.
Shane opened his mouth without thinking.
The acceptance was natural, like his body had decided before his mind could catch up. Ilya stilled for a beat, then hummed softly, pleased.
“Good,” he said, voice low.
The word settled deep, sent a shiver straight through Shane’s spine. He felt light-headed, overwhelmed in the best and worst way, wanting desperately to do everything right. To be what Ilya wanted. To earn that quiet approval again.
Ilya’s fingers fucked slowly into Shane’s mouth, like he was testing how far Shane would follow without being asked. Shane did not hesitate. He opened instinctively, sucking at the fingers on instinct, his breath shuddering from the sensation of his mouth being played with. He needed more. He needed it straight from the source. He moaned from the thought, his mouth desperate to be filled.
Ilya froze for half a second, then exhaled, low and pleased. His grip tightened just enough at Shane’s jaw to keep him there, eyes dark, watching every reaction.
“So eager,” he murmured, like he already knew exactly what Shane’s body was doing to itself. The praise hit him deeper than it should have, his every being wanting to please this alpha in front of him. He wanted more. Wanted to hear him say it again and any other praise from the alpha.
Before doubt could claw its way up his throat, Shane moved.
He dropped to his knees slowly, every inch of him tuned to Ilya’s breathing. His hands shook as they reached for the loose knot of the robe, fingertips brushing the warm skin beneath the fabric. His heart pounded loud enough that he could feel it in his teeth.
He worked at the tie with clumsy urgency, pulling it free.
Ilya’s response was immediate. A quiet, guttural sound left him, Shane felt it in his spine. One large hand slid into his hair, fingers spreading against his nape, guiding him with a slow stroke that made Shane’s lips part without meaning to.
The robe fell open.
Shane breathed in and almost reeled from it. The alpha scent hit him straight from the source now, making his mouth water before he even understood what was happening.
And then he saw him.
Ilya was huge. Heavy. Uncut. Thick enough that Shane’s throat tightened just imagining how it would feel. Nine inches at least, resting against Ilya’s thigh, flushed and leaking, like his body had been waiting for Shane to get on his knees.
Shane froze for half a second, overwhelmed. He didn’t know how to handle something like that. Didn’t know where to start. But he knew he couldn’t just sit there staring at it like an idiot.
He leaned in and opened his mouth.
The first press of the tip against his tongue made him gasp softly. He wrapped his lips around it, sucking lightly, instinctively, trying to mimic what he would like done to him. His hands came up, unsure at first, then wrapping around the base, thumb sliding along the ridge of warm skin.
Ilya’s breath hitched above him, approving.
Shane closed his eyes, letting himself find a rhythm, letting himself enjoy the weight of it on his tongue. The salty taste he couldn’t get enough of. The way Ilya’s fingers tightened in his hair every time he hollowed his cheeks just a little more.
He felt himself getting light-headed, hungry for it.
Ilya’s hand guided him gently, testing him, letting Shane decide how far he wanted to take it. Shane eased forward, taking more of him into his mouth, feeling the stretch against his lips. He moaned around it, embarrassed by how loud it was, but Ilya’s hand tightened again, just holding him there like the sound pleased him.
“Good boy,” Ilya breathed above him. “Take your time.”
Shane tried. He really did. But his body was ahead of his brain now, greedy and overeager. He pushed forward again, taking another inch, then another, hands working in slow strokes where his mouth couldn’t reach.
Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound so controlled it bordered on restraint.
“That is enough for now,” Ilya said, his voice strained.
Shane didn’t listen. He was too far gone, too lost in the rhythm and the taste and the way Ilya’s body reacted under his tongue. He sucked harder, eager and needy and wanting to make Ilya come just to prove to himself that he could, that he was a good omega.
“Oh—” Ilya choked on the sound, a startled moan ripping out of him. His hand tightened in Shane’s hair, urgent, trying to pull him back. “Stop. Stop, stop—”
Shane finally let go, breathless and flushed, spit shining on his chin.
Ilya hauled him to his feet in one smooth movement. His hands were steady, but his breathing wasn’t.
“Was that bad?” Shane asked, mortified, heat rushing to his face.
“No.” Ilya’s voice was rough but honest. “It was too good.”
He leaned in, mouth hovering dangerously close to Shane’s neck, close enough that Shane felt the puff of his breath against the glands hidden just under his skin. Ilya inhaled, his jaw clenching.
“Did you like sucking my cock?” he murmured.
Shane nodded instantly. “Yes.”
“You want me to lie down on the bed,” Ilya said, stepping back just enough to look into his eyes, “and let you do it again?”
“Let me?” Shane repeated, breath hitching.
“Yeah,” Ilya said simply. “Let you.”
A soft disbelieving sound escaped from him. He felt lighter, relieved that he hadn’t been embarrassing himself. He pushed Ilya backward, bolder now, and the older man let himself fall onto the bed, the robe slipping fully open.
He was gorgeous like that. He looked relaxed, and he was hard.
Shane crawled closer, shirtless but still wearing his trousers.
“I want to see you,” Ilya said.
Shane swallowed hard, nodding. He stood, unbuttoning his trousers with shaken fingers. He stepped out of them carefully and folded them before setting them aside.
Ilya chuckled, amused.
Shane winced, embarrassed. “I— sorry, I just—”
“No,” Ilya said softly. “It is sweet.”
Shane’s flush deepened. He took off his briefs next, feeling the cling of them against his skin, how wet they were from how worked up he’d been. He folded those too.
Then he climbed onto the bed beside Ilya, suddenly aware of every inch of his own nakedness. Ilya leaned in and kissed him again slowly, and Shane melted into it immediately. He moaned into Ilya’s mouth, craving more contact.
He wanted to go back down on him. Wanted the weight of that cock stretching his lips, wanted to make Ilya lose control again.
Ilya seemed to feel the shift in him. He cupped Shane’s jaw, his thumb brushing Shane’s lip, voice dropping to a murmur.
“You want my cock in your mouth again already?”
Shane nodded, breathless. “Yeah. I liked it.”
Ilya’s eyes darkened with heat.
“Then come here,” he said, settling back against the pillows, legs spreading in invitation, his cock flushed and heavy against his stomach.
Shane’s breath hitched. He moved to kneel between Ilya’s thighs again, leaning down.
Ilya caught his chin gently, stopping him for a moment.
“Slow,” he said. “I want to watch you this time.”
Shane felt the words everywhere in his body.
He lowered himself slowly, eyes locked on Ilya’s the entire time. The older man’s breath hitched visibly when Shane opened his mouth again, tongue grazing his flushed head before taking him in.
Ilya exhaled sharply. His hand slid into Shane’s hair, thumb stroking the sharp line of Shane’s cheek like he couldn’t believe the sight in front of him.
“Fuck,” Ilya muttered. His voice sounded rough and wrecked.
Shane moaned around him, the vibration making Ilya’s thighs tense beneath him. Shane kept going, taking him inch by inch, his lips stretching around the width of him. His hands braced against Ilya’s hips, fingers digging in every time the size overwhelmed him.
Ilya let out a noise, his control slipping. He cupped Shane’s jaw, his other hand sliding to the back of his neck, coaxing him into a steady rhythm.
“Da… like that, Hollander,” he rasped, accent pounding through each syllable. “Take it.”
Shane’s eyes fluttered, the praise encouraging him. He hollowed his cheeks and pushed down farther, desperate to please him.
Ilya’s hips rolled up to meet Shane’s mouth, hitting the back of Shane’s tongue. Shane choked lightly, then relaxed, moaning around him again.
The sound made Ilya swear violently in Russian.
Shane could feel himself getting unbearably close. His cock twitched untouched against his belly, precum smearing across his skin. He was going to come just from this, just from being used like this.
But then suddenly, Ilya pulled him back.
Shane gasped when the thick length slipped out of his mouth, spit dripping down his chin.
A sharp wave of disappointment washed through him. His lips tingled and his throat ached and he wanted more.
“I— did I do something wrong?” Shane whispered.
But there was no time for an answer.
Ilya was already stroking himself, eyes devouring Shane’s wrecked face. His breathing turned ragged, hips jerking into his fist.
“Watch,” he growled.
Shane felt hot arousal flowing through him from that, the way the alpha spoke to him made him whimper, he knew he had no choice but to listen and he loved it. He watched Ilya stroke himself faster and faster.
And then Ilya came with a sharp exhale, release striping hot come across Shane’s thigh, the thick ropes spilling over his skin. Shane’s breath stuttered, arousal hitting him so hard he had to grip the sheets, the sight of watching Ilya orgasm almost undoing him.
Ilya’s chest rose and fell for a few seconds, recovering, his eyes becoming focused again. Then he turned toward Shane, moving over him with easy confidence.
He grabbed Shane’s wrist, guided it above his head, and kissed him deeply and tasting himself on Shane’s tongue. Shane moaned into his mouth, his entire body arching, needy and desperate to be touched.
Ilya’s mouth trailed to his jaw, then his throat.
“Let me show you how to do this, kid,” he murmured against Shane’s skin, as he slid downward.