Chapter Text
Shane
He hears his phone buzz as he nears the locker, its sound pitched sharply against the metal locker shelf.
It’s unnecessary, the way he peeks over his shoulder. The rest of the team is otherwise occupied in varied states of post-game (post-loss) ritual, but Shane still finds himself checking, just in case, before he thumbs through to the message.
Lily: I win. You have my reward?
Shane rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the way his dick twitches at the words. He pauses a minute before punching out a reply.
Jane: Fuck you, Rozanov.
The three dots appear immediately.
Lily: Maybe.
Lily: Ask nice.
Fuck.
Shane again checks over his shoulder. Back to the phone screen.
It’s been months, but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking of the possibility of tonight since Ilya left his hotel room in Boston during the preseason. He starts to type, then deletes it. Types again. Deletes that too.
Jane: Please.
Jane: What room are you in?
Shane shoves his phone back onto the shelf. He rolls his shoulders, starting to feel the soreness from one too many body checks creep in. He busies himself with his own post-game ritual.
“Ask nice,” he mutters.
“Shane?”
He startles harder than he should, jerking his head up like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
It’s just Hayden, towel slung over one shoulder, hair dripping, looking at him like he’s been calling his name for a while.
“Hey. Did you want to grab dinner? A couple of us are going down to that spot on Main.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Shane clears his throat. “Be right there.”
“Okay. Cool.” Then, “Everything okay?
Shane nods. “Yeah. I just…” He pauses. Fuck. “Sorry about tonight.”
Hayden shrugs. “Injured goalie, not much we could do. The commenters love the rivalry, dude, but your hands were tied.”
“Yeah.”
“Rozanov was on fire though.”
Shane shoots him a look.
“Not that you weren’t, buddy.”
His phone buzzes.
Lily: Don’t be boring, Hollander.
Fuck.
It’s nearly midnight when he finds himself outside Room 1610, running a quick hand through his cropped hair before pulling out his phone.
Jane: Here.
The door opens, but not enough for him to slip through.
“Hello, Hollander.” There is a pause, followed by a playful, “What is password?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Shane says, quietly. He glances over his shoulder, pushing gently at the door. “Rozanov.”
The hallway is empty.
The door does not give.
“Password.” Ilya separates the word into two distinct, accented syllables.
Shane hesitates. Then, without sounding like he means it, “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Ilya’s reply matches Shane’s lack of affect, but there’s a hint of smugness on his face, the way his chin is held high with a small smile, that sends a flush of heat right to Shane’s dick. The door doesn’t move.
What an asshole.
Shane clears his throat. Another glance over his shoulder.
“Fuck me?” he tries, and the door swings open.
Ilya looks golden in the low lamplight, his hair disheveled and inches longer than the last time Shane saw him without a helmet. He's in a loose-fitting t-shirt, sweatpants.
He smiles then, and the door is hardly locked before Shane is pressed against the foyer wall. Ilya kisses him, rough and messy, one hand wrapped firmly around his throat. Shane kisses back with more urgency than he would like to admit, breathing in a taste of mint and cigarettes, his fingers curling just under the loose waistband of Ilya’s pants.
Fuck. He’s already hard.
Ilya’s hand finds Shane’s chin, squeezes once, and then lands on his cheek with a slap. He strides away. “Come,” he says, not looking back.
Shane is already feeling overheated.
He swallows, hard, and pushes off the wall, following Ilya down the short hallway.
The hotel suite is dimly lit, several small table lamps throwing warm gold across the walls. Ilya stops in the kitchen and turns, slowly, like he knows exactly what that does to Shane. His eyes drag over him, unhurried, assessing, the way he studies tape before a game.
Shane clears his throat. “So. How are you?” he asks awkwardly.
Ilya leans back against the kitchen counter, hands slipping into his pockets. Unimpressed. “Okay.” Okey.
Shane’s eyes move past Ilya to a smoldering cigarette that rests across a glass on the marbled counter. Next to it, a half‑finished drink in a highball glass.
“You shouldn’t be smoking, Rozanov,” he finds himself saying, and almost grimaces. God. Real smooth, Hollander.
Ilya glances at the cigarette, then back at Shane. Holds up his hands, eyebrows raised in feigned innocence. “Is not mine.”
It’s cute, and Shane knows the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
Ilya pulls a face but humors Shane, reaching over the counter for the cigarette. He stubs it out, but not before taking a final pull.
“No smoking, no drinking…” Ilya drags each word out in exaggerated complaint, blowing out the last bit of smoke. He breathes an exaggerated sigh. “You are so boring, Hollander.” He steps closer, and Shane can feel the air shift between them. Fingers hook lightly in the hem of Shane’s shirt, not pulling, just… there. “Take off your clothes.”
Shane’s pulse quickens. He hesitates one second, maybe two, and Ilya tugs the shirt hem upward.
“Off, please. See? Nice.”
Shane hides a smile, pulling the t-shirt the rest of the way over his head. He folds it, slowly, and places it on the counter.
Ice cubes clink as Ilya reaches for his glass and takes a sip, watching him. His mouth quirks, just a hint. “Good. Pants too.” Ilya hooks a finger inside the waistband of Shane’s jeans and tugs gently, closing the distance between them. He leans in and nips at the sensitive skin just below Shane’s ear. Before pulling back, he whispers, “Please. Thank you.”
Shane chuckles. Unbuttons his jeans. “So nice.”
“Oh, I am very nice.” Ilya takes another swallow of his drink and adds, “Is what your mother said too.” He looks pleased with himself for that despite Shane’s frown.
“You’re an asshole, Rozanov.” But Shane steps out of his jeans, carefully folding them to join his shirt on the counter. He stands still, down to boxer briefs now, arms loose at his sides. Letting Ilya study him. He feels a bit awkward.
Ilya’s eyes come to rest at the growing bulge in his shorts. He raises his eyebrows and Shane clears his throat.
“Your turn,” he says.
He expects to be told to ask nicely in return, but instead, Ilya immediately puts down his glass and pulls his shirt over his head, kicking out of his sweatpants at almost the same time. It’s not graceful, and the clothes pool on the floor, Ilya kicking them aside in a heap.
It’s Shane’s turn now, and his eyes trail skin and muscle, the prominent V-shaped contour that traces down to Ilya’s hips. Fuck. Somehow, Iyla is even more sculpted than the last time they did this. Shane wonders about his gym routine.
The erection in Ilya’s own underwear is hard to ignore.
“You look nervous, Hollander.”
“I’m not.” Shane’s pulse kicks hard. He wasn’t.
He was.
“Hollander.”
“I’m not nervous.” Shane raises his eyes and notices a trail of faint bruising along Ilya’s shoulder. “Your shoulder,” he says, and Ilya immediately pulls a face. “Is that from tonight?”
“Hollander,” Ilya complains. He steps back, putting an extra few inches between them, and Shane already misses the heat from his body. “Did you come for talking or fucking?”
He feels stupid suddenly, just a little, for coming over entirely. He’d told himself he wouldn’t do this again. He’s been left on read for over two months. They should talk.
After they fuck.
“You need drink?” Ilya picks his glass back up and raises it in question. “You want Ginger Ale?”
Ginger Ale. Shane shakes his head, a quick, jerky motion. He studies Ilya, but gets nothing back. Against better judgement, he takes the glass from him. Take a swallow. It burns, but he doesn’t let on.
Ilya nods and moves to the drink cart, filling another highball with ice. He pours a small amount of vodka and then returns to Shane, offering the new glass in return for his own, which he finishes and refills a bit more generously.
Shane watches him move, the way his boxer briefs hug his ass. He takes a sip from his glass. It’s stronger. Less watered down by melting ice. Warmth fills his stomach.
Ilya stands near to him again, though not quite as close. “Is okay vodka,” he says, almost apologetically. His cheeks are slightly pink, maybe from the alcohol.
“Uh. Yeah.” Shane knows nothing about liquor in general. “It’s okay.”
Ilya takes another sip, watching him. He’s so fucking calm. “Mm. Okay.” He leans in and kisses Shane’s neck, bites his ear, and then takes the glass from his hand, not waiting any longer. He strides through the kitchen to the bedroom doorway. “Come, Hollander.”
Shane is following before the word even reaches him.
The bedroom feels small, likely due to the overpowering king-size bed.
Ilya rests a glass on each nightstand, then goes to swipe the collection of decorative pillows off the comforter. He sits then, on the edge of the bed, eyes not leaving Shane’s. Pats next to him. His expression is somehow hard and soft at the same time.
Shane moves toward him but finds himself dropping to his knees instead.
“Fuck, Hollander…”
Shane takes him into his mouth.
“Fuck.” Again. “Hollander.”
Shane likes the way Ilya tastes, the way Ilya’s hand slides to the back of his neck, thumb brushing the short hair there. The way his Ilya trails his knuckles down the inside of Shane’s arm, matching his cadence until—
“Wait, wait.” Ilya pulls him up. Thumbs his lip. Kisses him roughly.
Shane fights the urge to ask if it was okay.
“Come please,” Ilya says, scooting back on the bed, his cock hard and exposed. He wants Shane next to him, and Shane acquiesces.
“Fuck,” he echoes when Ilya goes down on him in return. Ilya somehow looks smug, not breaking eye contact, and that look should be illegal with his lips around Shane’s dick. “Fuck,” Shane repeats, abusing the sheets with one hand. The other he allows himself to bury into Ilya’s hair.
He closes his eyes.
He tries not to come.
He can’t come this fucking quickly.
Ilya hums and good lord is he going to lose the battle—
An obnoxious buzz suddenly comes from the nightstand.
Shane opens his eyes.
The screen of Ilya’s phone lights up with the incoming call, and Shane can’t help but squint slightly at the caller ID, unable to make it out.
The buzzing continues and Iyla pulls back with a sigh. He squeezes the inside of Shane’s thigh and then shifts away on the mattress to reach over and tap the phone to silent. Muttering something in Russian.
The room falls quiet.
“You can take it,” Shane hears himself offer. His dick is hard. Almost painfully hard. Please don’t take it. “If you want.” With the tilt of Ilya’s body, he can only see a partial profile.
Ilya moves back then, rolling into him. “I do not want.” He leans forward to lick the inside of Shane’s thigh. He rests his chin there for a moment, eyes going to Shane’s hard dick and then rising to meet his. He sits up, scooting back. “I want… you on stomach.” Ilya gives him a smile. “Please.”
Shane returns the smile. It might be the vodka, but he’s feeling comfortable again. “Please,” he repeats softly.
Ilya shifts back to a kneeling position in the bed. He looks flushed. “Please.” When Shane hesitates, Ilya pats the side of Shane’s hip and adds, “Thank you. You are welcome.”
So nice. Shane chuckles and Ilya's mouth quirks slightly. Shane does as he’s asked.
Ilya presses his weight along his back, the hardness of his erection resting just between Shane’s ass cheeks. He guides a trail of kisses from the nape of Shane’s neck, and then lower, and lower, and Shane arches involuntarily.
When Ilya touches him, his fingers suddenly lubed, Shane ruts against the bed sheets.
“Is okay?”
He musters some type of audible consent into the sheets and Ilya continues to work him open, slowly, while pressing continued kisses onto the small of his back, the curve of his hip.
“Still okay?”
Shane can’t do it any longer.
“Please,” he says, and hates the desperate way his voice sounds to his own ears. “Rozanov.”
Ilya stills. “Please what?”
“Fuck me. Please.”
“Fuck, Hollander.” Ilya grabs his hips.
Later, they lay in a sweaty, satisfied pile. Legs tangled. Ilya’s head has come to rest on his shoulder. He traces lines on Shane’s skin, a finger slowly trailing his chest, down his stomach, up the contour of his hip. On repeat.
Shane kisses the top of his head and stares at the ceiling. His pulse is still too fast. His skin still humming.
The room is quiet except for their breathing.
Ilya’s breath sounds steady. Controlled.
Shane drags a hand over his face. His body feels loose, unstrung, like someone cut all the tension wires inside him and forgot to put them back.
Ilya’s hand drops, and he leans in to kiss Shane’s chest.
“I have early flight.”
And just like that. Shane feels the hollow start to sneak in.
The mattress dips. “Need to shower,” Ilya says.
Shane sits up with him, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. As he rises, Ilya’s phone starts to buzz again. Shane’s mind, of course, goes to wondering who is calling.
He’s not going to spiral.
He stands and reaches for the highball glass from the nightstand.
“Motherfucker,” Ilya says, rising to grab the phone. He moves around the bed and meets Shane there, taking the glass from him before he can take a drink from it. “Nyet–no.” Again, “Motherfucker.”
Shane frowns.
“Not you. Stop it. You are… miliy,” Ilya says, and then frowns himself. “Fuck.” He pushes Shane toward the doorway and Shane’s frown deepens.
Back in the kitchen, Shane dresses. He doesn’t expect Ilya to join him there, but he does, partially dressed himself.
Somehow, the hollow feeling in his chest deepens.
“Okay. Goodnight,” he says, awkward now, because he’s an idiot. “Good game tonight.”
Ilya grins now, and holds up three fingers. Wiggles them. One for each goal he scored.
Shane rolls his eyes and goes to slip his shoes back on.
“Maybe I should start clinic,” Ilya says. “For kids and stuff. And Metro. They can learn how to skate–”
"Fuck you,” Shane says, looking over his shoulder. “You're an asshole."
“Oh, I think you like it.”
“Fuck you, Rozanov.
There's a small, genuine smile on Ilya’s lips. "Goodnight, Hollander.”
Shane matches his stare. He wants to kiss him, one last time, but resists the urge. “Goodnight, Rozanov.”
Back in his own room, he can’t get the parting image of Ilya out of his head. The loose smile on his face, the post-coital mess of his hair, the sweatpants dangerously low on his hips.
“Fuck.” With a groan, he flops onto his bed.
He struggles to remember the word Ilya called him, so he could look it up, but it’s gone, drowned out by everything else spinning in his head.
Another groan. He stares up at the slow spin of the ceiling fan.
“Fuck.”