Chapter Text
What if I say I’m not like the others?
What if I say I’m not just another one of your plays?
You’re the pretender
What if I say I will never surrender
Darkness filtered in through the wide glass windows of the cottage as Shane Hollander sat in a low lit room, the open computer in front of him playing Ilya Rozanov’s recent interview. Golden curls were darkened by sweat and stuck to the young player’s forehead as Shane watched him respond to question after question. He’d just won the Stanley Cup with the Boston Raiders, a game Shane had watched on the edge of his couch with his hands white-knuckling the cushions.
Ilya Rozanov was a cocky, arrogant, fantastic athlete. Shane was almost jealous watching him skate around, still so nimble on the ice. No injuries yet, just injuries he’d given to other players. A year ago he’d played against the kid, with the younger players on Montreal giving Ilya enough of a hard time that Shane didn’t have to do it himself.
He remembered the look Ilya had given him when the players were all going back to the locker room from the ice, the captains the last to leave. A smirk and a wink were sent his way before Ilya raucously ran to join his teammates, a taunting, ‘You fucks owe me three thousand dollars!’ echoing through the halls. Fury coursed through Shane as the wink replayed in his mind over and over.
Later, when the players were all leaving, Shane saw Ilya outside with a cigarette in hand with the other shoved into a pocket. When he saw Shane, he lit up like a kid who just learned how matches worked. He looked at Shane like he was tinder.
“I didn’t know Montreal put the elderly out on the ice,” Ilya took a drag of his cigarette, blowing it out with a shit eating grin. “Makes sense as to why you didn’t get much play time, Captain.”
“And what makes you think you’re hot shit?” Shane growled back, gripping onto the straps of his bag tightly to try and get his anger out.
Ilya tilted his chin up just so, letting him look down on the Metro captain. “Everyone is saying that I’m going to beat your record,” he pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on, sauntering over to Shane where he simmered in the cold. “And I intend to. So hold on to it, Shane Hollander. Hold on tight.”
Audaciously the youth stuck his hand out and brushed an imaginary speck of dirt from the shoulder of Shane’s coat, the contact dizzying the older man for a moment. Briefly he considered swinging, his fists already clenched, but he thought better of it. Now, Shane wishes more than anything else he could’ve punched the kid– it was the only way to have felt the softness of his skin. Through his jacket, Shane could only feel Ilya’s warmth.
If Shane had any shame left, he would’ve felt immense amounts of it simply due to his search history being full of a twenty-one year old’s name. At thirty-four, his lifespan as a hockey player already dwindling, he somehow made the blow worse by obsessing over someone who resembled himself in his prime. Hungry, impatient, eager for a win. Ilya’d gotten it, many times, and Shane believed him now when he said he was coming for Shane’s title. Best player of all time. It was the only reason the Metro’s even kept him around anymore.
As a headache began to bloom in the back of Shane’s head from the bright light of his computer, he shut it closed, hiding Ilya’s face from his own. Sleep was not peaceful; instead, it was filled with images of Ilya Rozanov on his back, panting and begging.
Shane woke up with heavy dark eyes and a serious need to call a therapist. Instead what he got was a call from his mother (who yes, did still manage him) saying Canada wanted him to play in the winter Olympics that year. Confused, Shane agreed, but not before confirming multiple times. He was too old to be playing in the games, unless they needed someone to bring the team together in the locker room and be a benchwarmer on the ice. Once again, he would be the captain of a team that deserved someone younger.
“Do they have the roster?”
“Yeah– hold on, it says Ilya Rozanov is on here. I thought he would be playing for America. Or Russia.” His mom said, confusion coloring her voice. Shane stilled. Fuck.
“No, he’s Canadian. Moved here from Russia when he was young, and then got drafted in Boston.” Shane clarified. It wasn’t easy pinning down Ilya’s nationality considering he was an amalgamation of many different things, but Shane knew him a little too well.
“Wow, you studied,” his mom observed blandly, her dislike of Ilya not going unnoticed. Shane made a noise, to which she responded with, “Listen, he’s a great player! It’s nice to see another star rise through the ranks. I hate the way he talks about you, though. Like he doesn’t respect you.”
Shane shrugged. “Good thing my record’s not easy to beat.”
They shared a couple more words before hanging up, and with no one to fill the silence Shane was left to stare at his ceiling. He’d be playing on the same team as Ilya Rozanov, which certainly wouldn’t help Shane get him out of his head. Something about his face was just so punchable.
-
A week before the Olympics was the first training session, with every player taking a pause from their home teams to focus on their national teams. It was good that it was happening during the regular season, with all of the players conditioned and prepared. Shane didn’t have much work to do in terms of team bonding, considering a lot of the guys already knew each other. Except for Ilya. It was always about Ilya fucking Rozanov.
A lot of the players for the Canadian team had been hurt by Ilya, or at least slammed on the ice by him. Boston was not a fun team to play particularly because they were so violent, and Ilya fit in perfectly there. Embarrassingly, Shane had a mock conversation with himself in his hotel room to try and figure out how to talk to the kid about it. How he should act around the other guys, how he should talk. Don’t be so vulgar, Ilya, don’t provoke them; the Quebecois players were violent when you disrespected them.
Shane found himself going a little insane trying to imitate Ilya, instead choosing to go to bed and to just say what he was feeling in the moment. So, after practice, Shane waited behind while the rest of the players left. Ilya was still at his locker, phone in hand and cross in mouth.
“Rozanov, I wanted to talk to you,” Shane said, putting on his best ‘captain’ voice. He wasn’t used to disrespectful players; everyone was nice in Canada. Ilya looked up from his phone, a smirk already growing. It made his eyes sharper, and Shane hated how Ilya was always eager to get a little closer.
“Captain Hollander! What have I done to deserve the honor?” Ilya sneered, disrespect blatant in his tone. Shane’s jaw ticked.
“You’ve been an asshole, that’s what,” Shane finally took a step forward himself, his broad form quickly shadowing Ilya’s lithe one. “Half of this team fucking hates you because you play hockey like a dickhead. When you don’t have a C on your sweater you don’t suddenly get to stop being a team player. Show up for this fucking team. It’s the Olympics, Rozanov.”
“Wow,” Ilya sighed, letting his mouth fall open a bit as his eyes widened. Shane forced himself to look away; the image was too similar to his dreams. “Is this the part where you tell me there’s no ‘I’ in team? Or is this the part where you give me the title of captain because I can actually skate with it on?”
With every word Ilya spoke he took a step closer, and when he got to the final syllable he was right in Shane’s face. The older man could smell the shampoo on Ilya’s hair and the body wash he used, and when Ilya quirked up his mouth to show his front teeth, Shane lost it.
Every nerve in his body was alight with anger, Shane’s own emotional turmoil broiling over as he locked his forearm under Ilya’s chin and slammed him against the wall. His arm was heavy on Ilya’s windpipe, but the younger man just laughed.
“I’m surprised you can still move that fast, Hollander,” Ilya taunted, still not letting up. He was persistent with his comebacks, always seemingly having one ready. Shane pushed him a little harder, just to hear the way Ilya’s breathing began to thin.
“When I need to, I can.” Shane hissed, leaning in close to Ilya’s face, his eyes blazing. Ilya’s own eyes looked coolly back at him, a grimace painting his face in splotchy reds as his oxygen supply dwindled.
“Listen, Hollander,” he choked out, and Shane lessened the pressure to hear what he had to say. “I know it’s hard to be the captain of a team you can’t even play with. I’ll cut you a deal. When we win because of me, I’ll let you fuck me. That sound good to you?”
Red filled Shane’s vision before Ilya even finished speaking, and before his mind caught up to him his fist was colliding with the side of Ilya’s face, causing the younger man to come crashing to the ground. The first thing Shane heard was laughing as Ilya clutched his cheek, blood staining his teeth as he smiled. Shane huffed, his breathing ragged and uneven, disbelieving his own actions. He watched with rapt attention as Ilya licked his teeth languidly, eyes half-lidded looking directly into Shane’s own.
Shane bolted out of the room before he got hard.
Just as Ilya had said, at the end of the final Olympic hockey game, Canada stood with gold medals hanging from their chests. Each one of them was panting hard as they clutched the heavy metal in their hands, biting them for photos and posing. Shane had shockingly gotten some time on the ice, and a pass from Ilya meant he’d scored a goal. Ilya got the other two, but Shane was proud to have proved himself worthy of being captain.
In the locker room, all hell broke loose as champagne was opened and the team cheered as loud as they possibly could. Olympic champions for the rest of their lives, even if Canada never made it to the top again (Shane knew they would, because it was Canada). Soon, though, everyone wanted to see their friends and family; the team quickly showered and got dressed, leaving the locker room with grins on their faces.
Only two players stayed behind.
Ilya took his sweet time in the shower as Shane paced and contemplated by his locker. This was a bad idea, such a fucking bad idea. Shane was thirteen years his senior, repressed, and entirely too angry. Iron walls were put up around the only rational part of his brain left, but images of Ilya from his dreams threatened to tear them down. Ilya pliant and willing, Shane’s fingers shoved in his mouth to shut him up.
“Fuck,” Shane whispered, slamming his head into his locker a little harder than necessary. “Fuck.”
“That’s the plan, Hollander,” came Ilya’s voice from behind him, and Shane whipped his head around to see Ilya naked. No towel was around his waist as it uselessly dangled from the younger man’s arms, and Shane had to force himself not to look down. “I hope you didn’t forget about our agreement. You scored a goal because of me, I scored the other two… unless you’re scared?”
“I’m not scared,” Shane retorted, feeling the stupidity of his own words immediately. He hated the way Ilya’s lips immediately turned up into a smug smile like he’d just won again. “You’re just a fucking kid.”
“I’m not,” Ilya responded smoothly, walking over to his own locker, finally turning away from Shane. The older man could’ve sworn Ilya was moving his hips more on purpose, so he looked away from that, too. “But I can pretend, if that’s what you like.”
“No!” Shane shouted, turning back around to see Ilya’s grin. A growl left Shane’s throat before he could stop it, and he shook his head. “No, fuck. You’re just so young and I’m…”
“Old?” Ilya filled in the blank all too happily. Shane glared at him, and Ilya just continued smiling. “I’m sure you can still move your hips, right, Grandpa?”
Ilya walked over to Shane, body exposed in contrast to Shane’s fully clothed one, and the Metro player could do nothing except stand completely still. Hazily he felt Ilya press his body against him, leaning ever closer.
“Right?” Ilya whispered against Shane’s lips, and that was the moment when it all came rushing back to him. Shane pushed Ilya off, the younger man stumbling back before Shane grabbed his arm tightly and swung him to his locker.
“Get dressed.” Shane ordered, trying to calm his breathing down. Ilya snickered but did as he was told, quickly pulling on pants– no underwear, something Shane made immediate stock of– and a shirt. His jacket, however, was an affair Ilya took as slow as possible with. One agonizing sleeve after the other, with Shane grinding down on his molars the entire time, already half hard. Shane was sure Ilya felt it when he pressed on him a second ago.
The second Ilya’s jacket was on Shane grabbed his arm again, the younger quickly grabbing his necessary possessions before he was dragged out of the locker room. Opening the door to his Range Rover, Shane threw Ilya into the passenger seat before getting in on the driver’s side. The drive to Shane’s house was tense and quiet, Shane squeezing the steering wheel so tight he thought it might break. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ilya look at Shane’s dick from where it was pressing against his pants and lick his lips.
Fuck.
They barely made it two seconds inside before Shane slammed Ilya against the wall and kissed him. The impact caused the air to leave Ilya’s lungs, air that was quickly swallowed by Shane, leaving the younger panting and breathless. Shane quickly stripped Ilya of his jacket and shirt, allowing Ilya a moment to breathe before biting down hard on the junction where shoulder met neck. Ilya hissed, and Shane grabbed his hips.
Thumbs pressed down hard on the hard muscle of Ilya’s abdomen, pressing and pressing. Shane continued biting and sucking Ilya’s soft skin, the younger man panting above him. Nails raked down Shane’s still-clothed body, and suddenly he needed to be rid of any barriers between them. Sweater, then shirt, then pants were taken off of him before Shane pulled Ilya’s down as well. His cock sprung out, half hard.
“You should suck it,” Ilya said slyly. “As captain you should reward your star players.”
Shane saw the moment to make his dreams a reality and took it without hesitation, shoving two fingers into Ilya’s mouth before he could say another word. He watched with rapt attention as Ilya took them, spit dripping down his lower lip. Shane pushed them further, sighing when Ilya gagged on them.
“No,” Shane replied, eyes glassy. “You said I could fuck you. And I will. My way.”
Shane removed his fingers, letting Ilya cough as Shane moved them to the couch. He threw Ilya down unceremoniously onto the cushions, following quickly, fingers still slick with spit. Without warning, Shane shoved one digit into Ilya’s waiting hole. The sharp inhale he got from the younger man was worth it, all of his muscles tensing. Shane felt it around his finger.
Lube was stored in one of the ottomans, Shane flinging the top off to grab it. Ilya looked from the bottle to Shane, an expression of absolute glee forming on his face. Shane sent him a withering look, but it didn’t quench the growing smile.
“You keep lube in your ottoman?”
“I live alone,”
“You jerk off on your couch?” Ilya was too close to laughing for Shane’s liking, so he quickly squirted a line of lube onto his fingers and shoved three back into Ilya. It punched the air out of him, Ilya’s arm immediately flying back as he gripped the couch. Shane tried to make quick work of finding Ilya’s prostate, his fingers curling and pressing until one spot wrenched the sweetest whine from the younger man.
Shane switched between languid strokes of his fingers, gently brushing up against the spot that made Ilya tick, and relentless pressing and poking at it. Every time Ilya’s moans got sharper and higher, Shane would switch back to his slow pace.
“Fuck, old man, are you going to make me wait all night?” Ilya huffed, chest heaving as Shane pushed him further and further off the edge but didn’t let him fall. Shane smiled above him.
“If that’s what it takes,” he leaned over him, pressing his fingers deeper, eyes following the way Ilya’s head tipped back. “Or if you beg nicely enough for it.”
Ilya flashed his teeth at him, snarling like it would get him anywhere. Shane just waited, stilling his fingers in him and slowly moving them out. It only took a few seconds for Ilya to understand what was happening, annoyance settling on his face as he realized Shane wasn’t bluffing. He would pull out of Ilya completely, leaving him empty and wanting.
“Let me come,” Ilya assented through clenched teeth. Shane’s eyebrow lifted, clearly not satisfied. Ilya was like a feral cat, ears pinned back on his head as he contemplated his choices. Shane wasn’t giving him many. “Please.” Ilya finally bit out.
That was all Shane needed before he shoved four fingers in, curling perfectly as he pressed over and over again as Ilya’s back arched beautifully off the couch. Shane pressed his hips down, keeping them grounded as Ilya’s mouth fell open, a long, drawn out moan leaving it as he came. White covered Ilya’s hard abdomen, the younger man panting hard as Shane continued to press until Ilya was twitching and overstimulated.
“Sure you didn’t pull anything?” Ilya goaded breathlessly, still attempting to catch his breath. Shane just looked down at him, getting up to wipe his fingers off. Ilya followed him, stumbling a little when he first stood up. Shane’s cock twitched at that, and he had to acknowledge that he was so hard it hurt. In the kitchen Shane grabbed a paper towel and cleaned the four fingers that had been buried in Ilya. Ilya watched from where he was leaning on the wall. “You’re hard.” Ilya pointed out the obvious.
Shane shot him a bland look, eyes sharp as they landed on the naked Ilya. His dick was hard again too, and Shane felt a touch of envy at the refractory period of the young. Warm, tight heat was Shane’s decided prize for the night, one he would take his time earning. He walked over to Ilya, kissing him hard as he pulled golden curls as far as he could without ripping it all out. Ilya’s hands snaked around him, nails digging into his skin.
Shane pulled back. “You can suck my dick,” Shane patted the cheek he’d punched with his hand. “As a thank you to your captain.”
“What fucking ‘thank you’?”
“‘Thank you for putting up with my bullshit’ would be a start,” Shane offered condescendingly. Ilya scoffed.
“Hah! Like you had a choice,” Ilya bit back, working his jaw. “I’m not sucking shit.”
Shane shrugged. “Okay. Your stuff’s by the entrance.”
Ilya gawked, mouth falling open in such an inviting way. He certainly hadn’t been expecting Shane to say that, and while Shane was half bluffing, he was way too hard right now to even contemplate Ilya actually leaving. He watched Ilya’s eyes dart from Shane to the exit of the kitchen, his hands still firmly on Shane’s biceps. He heard Ilya swear before he looked at Shane. Ilya’s eyes were burning.
Slowly he slipped down, wetting his lips enticingly as he went, his hands never leaving Shane’s skin. They dipped lower, moving past Shane’s pecs to his stomach before resting securely on his thighs. He could feel Ilya’s warm breath, and it caused him to shiver. Ilya’s tongue snaked out, pressing on Shane’s slit. Thank god the counter was behind him, giving Shane something to lean on as Ilya slowly licked down his entire length.
His tongue knew exactly what to do, swirling and flattening to slick Shane’s dick as much as possible before Ilya took him inside all at once. It was Shane’s turn to have the wind knocked out of him as he gripped Ilya’s hair, tugging. Ilya worked Shane inside his mouth, humming and groaning every time he went up his length before taking him back in again.
Flames were stoked deep in Shane’s belly, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more, and needed more desperately; he tightened his hold on Ilya’s hair, both hands bringing him down so Ilya’s nose pressed up against Shane’s body. His throat pulsed beautifully around Shane, soft whimpers coming from the man as he gagged. Tears streamed down Ilya’s face as his hands frantically moved from Shane’s thighs to his abdomen.
Shane didn’t care, continuing to fuck himself on the willing mouth below him, chasing the high of orgasm. Finally he released, and Ilya was all too eager to swallow before Shane removed Ilya from himself. The younger man fell to the floor, coughing and choking. His hand flew up to his neck as he panted, taking in gulps of breath at a time. Shane wondered if he should apologize before scrapping the idea.
He heaved Ilya onto his feet just to get a good look at him, and what a sight it was. Spit and come covered Ilya’s chin and lips, his nose and cheeks red. Glossy eyes stared back at him, tears still brimming the edges. Shane kissed him again, licking himself off of Ilya’s lips. For the first time, Ilya was silent, just staring at Shane. Uneasiness settled in the older man, but he brushed it off.
He led them to his bed where more lube was found in the bedside table, and Shane expected a snarky comment from Ilya but received none. His eyes were hazy and half-lidded, lips parted as he watched Shane from where he had been placed on the bed. Shane leaned back on his haunches, looking at Ilya.
“Ilya,” he said, and Ilya just made a small sound of acknowledgement. Shane ventured closer, tapping Ilya’s cheek again. “Ilya, you have to say something.”
Ilya mumbled something Shane couldn’t understand, and Shane shook his head.
“Ilya…”
“Fuck me,” Ilya rasped, throat wrecked, and Shane’s eyes widened. “Please, Hollander, for the love of God just fuck me. Please.” Ilya looked directly into Shane’s eyes then, and he saw how desperately Ilya needed him. Whatever switch Shane had flipped was entirely welcomed, and he assumed the mix of pleasure and pain had something to do with it.
Rolling the condom down and squirting an extra bit of lube on just for good measure, Shane pressed Ilya’s legs back before sliding completely in. Ilya yelped, hands immediately shooting out to find Shane. Fingers dug into Shane’s hair, pulling him closer as he set a viscous pace. He angled himself to hit Ilya's prostate every time he thrust in, and he was rewarded with whimpers and moans that quickly turned into breathy sobs. The view in front of him was one Shane would tuck away forever; Ilya Rozanov had never looked prettier than when he had tears streaking down his face.
Shane continued pummeling into the younger man, pressing harder and harder until Ilya came untouched, open mouthed and silent as his body went rigid and then lax. Still, Shane thrusted into Ilya’s tight heat, first working Ilya through his orgasm and then chasing his own. Shane might’ve been older but he knew how to last as long as possible, meaning that Ilya didn’t get a second to breathe.
Overstimulation was written plainly on Ilya’s face as he dug his nails into Shane’s shoulder. Whimper after beautiful whimper left Ilya’s mouth as he shook his head, fat tears sliding down soft cheeks. He babbled in Russian, his own body not listening to him as he met every one of Shane’s thrusts. Shane let Ilya’s legs fall from where they had been pressed back, choosing instead to kiss Ilya hard, his hands pressing firmly on his chest.
His legs attempted to close, the nerves in Ilya’s body all alight. Shane’s body stood in the way, so Ilya was forced to wrap them around Shane’s torso. Fingers went to Ilya’s perked nipple, pinching and rolling his thumb over. Ilya broke the kiss, wrecked sounds falling easily from his mouth now as he lost control of himself. Shane calmly kissed his face, down his neck, down his chest as Ilya was taken over the edge again. Heat was building steadily in Shane, and the older man was eager to watch the younger come undone.
Ilya keened, voice going high as his entire body spasmed before moaning a breathless, “Shane, хватит.”
As if a spell had been broken, Shane came hard, white sparks dancing in his vision as his rhythm stuttered before he planted himself firmly inside Ilya, groaning. He pulled out, almost going fully hard again at Ilya’s whine due to being empty. Shane watched as his hole clenched and relaxed, wanting to be filled again.
Ilya took his time coming down, eyes closed as Shane gave him peppering kisses down his body. Like a good partner, Shane got a damp washcloth and wiped Ilya down, gently cleaning the lube out of his hole. The first attempt to do so was met with arms swatting him away, but Ilya was too tired to move on the second attempt. He moaned quietly as Shane scooped as much as he could out, trying his best not to brush his prostate again.
“I can, um, call you a cab or something,” Shane said, earning him a very unimpressed look from Ilya. “Or I can drive you back.”
“Hollander, I don’t think I can walk,” Ilya responded less than pleasantly. “You’re gonna let me sleep here. Captain.”
Shane couldn’t really say anything else to that, choosing instead to crawl into bed next to Ilya and sleep deeply. No dreams plagued him, and when he woke up, he found Ilya curled in his arms, sound asleep.
It was the best bad decision Shane’s ever made.