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Shane Hollander is surrounded by a small group of men wearing his jersey with his name on their backs, and Ilya Rozanov is definitely not jealous.
He’s not jealous because the men are wearing Shane’s name and number, but more so his not jealousy is based upon the fact that these men are blatantly, obviously flirting with his husband. Right in front of him. Shane is even wearing his wedding band – he’d put it back on after the game tonight. Did they have no couth?
“Stop glaring at the fans, Ilya,” Troy laughs as he sits down at the table with Ilya and takes a sip of his beer. Monk’s has been getting busier lately. Now that the Centaurs are winning, word has spread that they come here after games, and it’s not unusual for the place to be busier than it used to be these days. In the past, the team made up half the clientele after game night. Now there’s a crowd – there are people playing pool, the bar rail is full of patrons, and all of the little cocktail tables have people sitting at them. There’s an extra bartender on shift, too, a sweet girl named Rebeka that Ilya likes a lot, because she doesn’t treat them any differently, and gives Ilya just as much sass as the next person.
“I am not glaring,” Ilya huffs as he takes a drink of his own beer. Shane is laughing lightly, and Ilya recognizes it as his press laugh. One of the men now has their hand on Shane’s forearm, squeezing the muscle there, sizing Shane up, Ilya thinks.
Ilya is close to his breaking point. He’s one second away from going over there and stealing his husband back. His jealousy is a hot, heavy thing that sits in the pit of his stomach and makes him seeth, and he wonders vaguely if he’s got smoke pouring from his nostrils.
When Shane’s eyes find him across the bar, he gets his cue. Shane’s eyes are wide and pleading, begging Ilya for an excuse to leave, but too polite to just come up with a reason himself. So Ilya does what he does best – he goes to insert himself into Shane’s business.
In a few strides Ilya is joining the circle of men, four of them to be exact, two with Hollander jerseys on, the other two in Ottawa Centaurs hoodies. One man is mid-sentence, telling Shane what an amazing goal he scored tonight as Ilya wedges himself between the man with his hand on Shane who is talking, and Shane himself. The man’s hand falls away from Shane’s forearm and he turns, looking affronted, until he sees who he is face to face with.
With a wicked grin, Ilya wraps one arm around Shane’s waist, eyes never leaving the man who had the audacity to touch his husband. Ilya knows jealousy is one of his biggest weaknesses, but he also can’t believe that this fan had the nerve to touch Shane – to flirt with him openly! – when Ilya was right there. It feels like a slap in the face, because to be a fan of Shane’s means these men more than likely know about the scandal that outed him as gay.
The scandal that involved him caught making out with Ilya in the background of Hayden Pike’s cameo.
And sure, their wedding was a quiet, private affair, but neither are shy about who they are married to. Shane calls Ilya his husband in post-game interviews all the time, a thing that makes Ilya’s heart thud wildly in his chest with the thrill of hearing it.
If one thing is for sure, it’s that Shane and Ilya aren’t subtle about being in love with each other. So who the hell does this man think he is?
Said man is currently eyeing Ilya, as if maybe he stands a chance. As if it were possible that in any lifetime Shane would choose him over Ilya. Then Shane leans into Ilya, their hips bumping, Shane’s face turning up towards Ilya’s with the sweetest, softest smile on it, a smile of gratitude, Ilya understands, and the man must know he doesn’t stand a chance.
“Enough socializing for one night, moya lyubov?” Ilya asks as he nuzzles his nose into the side of Shane’s face and presses a soft kiss there. He knows based on principle that Shane must be blushing, but he doesn’t push Ilya away. His hand finds Ilya’s, the one that’s at his waist, and he interlaces their fingers as he sighs.
It’s incredible to think Ilya can touch Shane like this in public now without Shane pulling away. Even a year ago this kind of affection in public would have sent Shane into a panicked spiral, but now – now he just accepts the touches with a small sigh of contentment, and his own touches in return. It’s amazing what acceptance, care, and understanding will do for a person. It’s been amazing to watch Shane morph and cut loose from his old shell, to see him grow into this new one, and accept his new role and position with grace and confidence, two things that have always defined Shane Hollander.
“Yeah, unfortunately.” Shane gives the group of men a tired smile. “Sorry, guys, it’s been a long day. Nice to meet you,” Shane offers. Ilya grins as well, a selfish, petty thing, because he’s the one who gets to leave the bar with Shane, not any of these men. He’s won this battle, and while he knows there will always be men flirting with Shane, it’s nice to come out on top.
Ilya knows it isn’t all about winning. He knows Shane isn’t a prize to be had or something to be earned, but damn if he doesn’t hate when people act like Ilya just… doesn’t exist in Shane’s life. He’d had to pretend like Shane was nothing to him for too long, and now that he can be open and free and honest with the world, he’s going to take advantage.
They say good night to the team and head out to Shane’s SUV. Shane stifles a yawn as he climbs into the driver’s seat, and Ilya reaches for his husband’s hand as he settles into the passenger seat.
“You were jealous,” Shane points out smugly as he starts the car. Ilya’s phone syncs to the bluetooth, and picks up where they’d left off earlier. His playlist is soft ambient noise as he shrugs and looks straight ahead.
“Was not,” he murmurs defensively, and Shane squeezes his hand as he pulls out of Monk’s parking lot and heads towards home.
“It’s alright if you were,” Shane encourages him, and Ilya frowns as he looks out the passenger window.
“I just…” Ilya huffs, and looks back to Shane, who’s smiling as he watches the road. “You are not an object, I know that. I do not want to…” he fumbles with the words and gestures with his free hand. “Possess you. But I did not like how that man was looking at you.”
“I know you don’t want to possess me or anything,” Shane snorts, and looks over at Ilya for a moment before shaking his head with a little laugh. “It’s ok, though, to not like men flirting with me. I should have realized that was what it was sooner, too, but they were asking me about hockey so I thought it was… tame. I dunno.”
It’s Ilya’s turn to snort, and he does as he looks at Shane. “You have never been good at knowing when someone is flirting with you,” Ilya points out, and Shane laughs.
“I guess you’re right.”
“Is okay. You’re cute when you are oblivious,” Ilya teases. He brings their joined hands up to his lips and presses a kiss into Shane’s knuckles, which earns him a hum of satisfaction from Shane.
As they drive the rest of the way home, Ilya tries not to stew. He doesn’t fault Shane at all for the encounter, but he still feels a bitterness in the back of his throat that those men left there. The disrespect to Shane and his relationship with Ilya feels personal, and he loathes that he’s so worked up over this. He should have told the men off, but he knew that would have upset Shane, so he’d taken the easy way out – extracting them from the situation.
Shane parks in the garage and they both hurry through the cold January night into the house. Shane lets Anya out in the backyard, and Ilya kisses Shane’s cheek.
“Am going to head upstairs,” Ilya says as he pats Shane’s ass and smirks.
“I’ll be up once Anya’s done,” Shane says, and he catches Ilya’s hand before he walks away and presses a soft, sweet kiss to his lips. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Ilya says, sighing into the kiss with contentment, finally feeling that bitterness turn into something sweeter on his tongue.
Once he’s upstairs, Ilya turns left into their guest bedroom where they keep an overflow of clothes in the closet there. He rummages around, finally finding what he’s looking for, and smirks as he tosses his clothes aside and tugs on a jersey over his briefs. He hears Shane come up the stairs, Anya’s collar jingling as she follows, and he smirks to himself as Shane’s footsteps move away from him and towards their bedroom.
“Ilya?” There’s confusion in Shane’s tone as he calls from the bedroom, surprised, Ilya is sure, that his husband isn’t there.
“Coming, coming!” he calls, and, leaving his other clothes behind, Ilya struts into the bedroom door, stopping and leaning against the frame.
Shane looks confused as to why Ilya is wearing a Centaurs jersey, and he takes in Ilya’s bare legs and the slight bulge in his briefs, then raises an eyebrow. Ilya takes the cue and turns around, showing off the fact that he’s now wearing a Hollander jersey. They have plenty of them, both from Montreal and the Centaurs, so what’s one to be sacrificed for an amazing night of sex?
When he realizes what’s going on, Shane’s cheeks pink, and Ilya turns back around to take it in.
“Oh,” is all Shane manages, and Ilya approaches him, footsteps slow, taking his time. Shane looks up at him and blinks, and Ilya cups Shane’s cheeks in his hands, brushing his thumbs across the dusting of freckles on Shane’s cheekbones. Ilya thinks, vaguely, that he will never get tired of this. Of holding Shane, of touching him and getting him to make those little sounds that convey more than words can.
Ilya gets jealous, and the truth is he can’t stand to think of anyone else getting to touch and hold Shane. He can’t imagine a lifetime where this isn’t the outcome, where they aren’t endgame, where Shane never gives him a chance and he’s left alone at the end of it all. It feels wrong to even entertain that idea, and Ilya’s chest fills with a flood of deep despair, even at the imaginary prospect.
“Hey,” Shane leans forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of Ilya’s mouth. “I love you,” he says, his lips now finding Ilya’s fully and pressing a tender kiss there. Shane’s hands reach under the jersey Ilya is wearing, and he grasps Ilya’s hips, presses his fingertips firmly into Ilya’s skin, and Ilya loses himself in this feeling, in being engulfed by Shane.
“There’s no one else for me,” Shane murmurs, softly, against Ilya’s lips. It’s like he can read Ilya’s mind, like he knows the spiral Ilya is currently whirling in. Some days that anxiety wins out, and he thinks maybe he doesn’t deserve Shane. But then Shane, in all of his earnestness, proves him wrong, like he’s doing now.
“I don’t want anyone else,” Shane murmurs as he pulls back slightly, letting his eyes meet Ilya’s, as he smooths his thumb over the crest of Ilya’s hip and then squeezes. A beautifully soft smile blooms on Shane’s lips, and he bites at his lower lip as he leans in and nuzzles against Ilya’s neck, pressing soft kisses as he goes, eliciting the smallest of noises from Ilya’s lips.
“I know, Shane,” Ilya breathes softly as Shane kisses and nips at his pulse point, making Ilya’s dick twitch. “And you are it for me,” Ilya assures him, though he knows that’s never been in question. His loyalty to Shane has always been front and center.
“Good,” Shane smiles against Ilya’s skin, and he feels the joy pressed there as Shane’s fingertips dig into his hips. Ilya’s hand drops to squeeze Shane’s ass, pulling Shane closer to him, pushing them flush against each other.
“Now, are you going to fuck me in that jersey, or what?” Shane asks, and Ilya growls, low in his throat, as he pushes Shane back and onto their bed, both laughing as they fall onto the mattress.
They get Shane out of his clothes quickly, and Ilya kicks his briefs off, but keeps the jersey on at Shane’s insistence. Ilya takes his time teasing Shane, opening him up and making him squirm with want. Nights like tonight are Ilya’s favorite – when they’re both vulnerable and open, both of them pliant and wanting, desperate to just be themselves together, with nothing else in their way.
Once Shane is ready and begging, Ilya fucks into him slowly. Shane’s fists curl into the fabric of the jersey, and Ilya bends down, kissing Shane deeply, thrusting into him and moaning into Shane’s mouth. It doesn’t take long before they’re both falling apart, coming undone and panting in pleasure. Ilya falls onto the bed and immediately gathers Shane up into his arms, his nose skimming across Shane’s cheek before pressing a kiss to as many freckles as he can reach. Shane laughs breathlessly, cheeks flushed, eyes closed contentedly.
“I don’t want any other man wearing your name,” Ilya admits, a soft truth that he’s been sitting with all night.
Instead of being reasonable, Shane indulges him, which Ilya appreciates. “We’ll ban Hollander jerseys from being sold ever again,” he says with a laugh that makes his head fall back, exposing his neck to Ilya, who kisses it gratuitously. “Only you and I can wear the name ‘Hollander’ now!” Shane cries, and he hits at Ilya’s shoulder, laughing as Ilya presses more kisses to his skin. Ilya rolls back on top of Shane, and they both laugh breathlessly as Ilya looks down at Shane, adoration in his eyes, soft words on his lips.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya hums happily, so thankful for a husband who understands rather than refuses to see his side of things.
“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu,” Shane responds, easily, like slipping into Russian is sliding into his favorite pair of pants. Ilya loves him for it. For every adaptation he’s taken, for each little thing that makes a big impact, Ilya adores Shane.