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Shane had never thought twice about when partners showed up to the pre-All Stars get together. Usually it just happened while he was knee deep in a conversation with someone about the latest rankings – or right about the time he’d be covertly checking to see if Ilya was ready to go.
He sat fully dressed in their room, and set a timer for 17 minutes after Ilya texted him. 15 seemed too eager, and 20 seemed too long.
The hotel had a segmented bar, which gave Shane another chance to bolster himself. The players were in the back room, hidden behind a door with “private event” hanging on it. A few women he’d recognized stood by the bar, waiting for their drinks, sweating beers already sitting by them.
Should he bring in a drink? It was the season but he was technically off. Shane hesitated by the bar and looked at the top shelf, spotting a familiar bottle.
“What can I — you’re Shane Hollander.” The bartender informed him.
“That I am,” Shane put on his thanks for being a fan smile. “Still star struck? You’ve got the best in the league over there.”
“Yes - no! I mean I was following the news. It’s cheap they didn’t ask you to play — the new rule is total bullshit and —“
“Thanks, but I’m just here to watch.” He’d been advised by a lawyer hired by Scott’s organization to absolutely not talk about it. That there was a case brewing and frothing. Shane handed over the emails without a complaint with the recording of Crowell’s response to the FanMail video as a cherry on top. He was happy that someone was doing something. He was two seconds from going to New York to punch Crowell himself which didn’t help him to keep Ilya from doing it first.
“Rozanov is fantastic,” the bartender blushed, “I mean you don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Yeah, I do love watching him play,” which was honest. The fans had rioted enough that Crowell had given in and invited Ilya at least. His Mom had reminded him more than once that attending was sending a message, an important one that was going to help the overall goal. Of course she did this between rants about Crowell and homophobia with terms she’d learned researching after Shane came out. Shane just wanted to watch Ilya skate circles around everyone.
“Well what can I get you?” The bartender moved towards the taps.
“Yeah I’ll just have whatever beer you recommend, and that vodka,” he pointed to the bottle, “neat if you don’t mind.”
Once he had the drinks in hand, and the bartender was looking at the autographed coaster (my boyfriend would just die, here maybe this coaster?) Shane braced himself to go through the door.
The bouncer didn’t even bother to look at the list or check his ID, giving him a nod and pulling the door open for him.
Ilya stood out like a golden beacon of light, sitting at a corner booth between Marleau and Hayes, his head tossed back in laughter, and his curls glinting in the light.
The forced smile became real, and the lingering dread that had been in his heart all evening evaporated.
He gave quick hellos to the players who clocked him crossing the room, and kept his eyes on the prize. He didn’t want to see if anyone was whispering, or nudging each other to jerk their chins at him.
Ilya’s eyes met his, and he shot him a quick wink and a smile.
Do it for him.
“Shane fucking Hollander!” Marleau announced, drawing the attention of everyone who hadn’t already noticed him, “Rozanov said you were coming down.”
“Yeah, there were no good games tonight so I figured I’d grab a drink,” Shane set the vodka down in front of Ilya, and sat on the chair across from him.
“Hollander, you are too far away, come sit here,” Ilya said, patting his lap.
“Fuck off Rozanov,” Shane shot back, before nodding at Wyatt and his wife tucked under his arm, “Hey Hayes, Lisa,”
“Hey,” Wyatt said, “we were just talking about you.”
“Good things I hope,” Shane choked down the anxiety that threatened to crawl up his spine. Wyatt was his friend, they went on double dates out to dinner and listened as Lisa told absolutely disgusting stories about the emergency room.
“Marleau is sad that he did not come to the wedding,” Ilya shot a faux pout towards Marleau who just rolled his eyes, “and this is after he broke the groom’s collarbone.”
“That was years ago!” Marleau reached out and patted Shane’s shoulder, “I’m sorry again about that.”
“I honestly think Ilya is more upset about it than I am at this point.”
Marleau paused, turning to look at Ilya, “Wait even then? I thought you were seeing some chick in Montreal —”
“Shane is Montreal Girl.” Ilya said, shooting Shane a smile.
“No way!” Marleau sank back in his seat, as if contemplating this. “Wait, last year —”
“How’s California treating you?” Shane interjected, hoping his cheeks weren’t reddening. If he started blushing now he’d never make it through this night. He certainly can’t sit there and reminisce about how Marleau had knocked on Ilya’s door when Ilya was knuckle deep in Shane last All Stars.
“You fucking legend!” Marleau said instead, ignoring Shane’s attempt at a subject change and slapping Ilya’s shoulder, “Sneaking around at All Star’s with Shane Hollander!”
“Are they always like this?” Lisa asked as Ilya chuckled and smacked away Marleau’s hand.
“The bond between a Center and his Defenseman is deep and unknowable,” Wyatt said, “and frequently the closest thing you can get to frat brothers outside of a University.”
“Speaking of which, I should go find Judd before he gets into some shit,” Marleau stood up from the table, patting Shane’s shoulder with an easy camaraderie like this wasn’t the first time they were talking to each other off the ice. “I’ll see you tomorrow Rozanov, always a pleasure Hollander.”
Ilya patted the empty seat, but before Shane could decide to take it, another defenseman stole Marleau’s place.
“It’s bullshit Hollander, bullshit!” J.J. said, in French.
“See what I mean,” Hayes said, gesturing to J.J.
“We can’t talk about it here.” Shane switched to English, hoping that J.J. would follow, “have you met Lisa?”
~
With Shane at the table, the conversation resolutely stuck to hockey. Just hockey, hockey, and more hockey. It was becoming his fall back when he was uncomfortable in public and testing his own boundaries with being openly gay and married to his rival.
Ilya didn’t mind, especially when Shane gave in and moved to his side. Ilya’s hand dropped off the back of Shane’s shoulders, and rucked up his shirt, keeping his palm against the warm skin of his waist where no one could see. Everyone knew now, and Ilya didn’t have to pretend that he wasn’t absolutely besotted.
It felt a bit like they were holding court. After Hayes took Lisa to introduce her to someone at the bar and J.J. wandered off to shout loudly in French at someone else, their seats were taken by other people. Rookies holding their first invite to the games came up to tell them both how they’d followed their careers. Old timers came over to say hi and swap old reminiscing tales.
“They all know you’re a king Hollander,” Ilya muttered in Shane’s ear, speaking slowly so Shane could parse out the Russian words with his quick brain as they watched a rookie leave to go tell his friends that he talked to Hollander and Rozanov.
“Shut up,” Shane said, nudging him with his elbow before letting his hand drop to Ilya’s thigh. “I’m just here as a supportive husband.”
“Did someone say supportive husband?” Scott said as he dropped into the seat that the last rookie abandoned, “because Kip spends half of these trips dying of boredom. Please tell me he texted you.”
“We’ve got brunch plans for tomorrow,” Shane said, squeezing Ilya’s knee, “While you’re in practice we’re going to be drinking mimosas by the pool.”
“He’ll love that. Maria was supposed to come as Jalo’s plus one but the coach is putting him on concussion watch after the last game.”
The conversation fell into a lull, where they were all pointedly not talking about the thing that they’d been repeatedly told not to speak about. Ilya decided to be the supportive husband.
“I’m surprised Kip lets you play when you are so old, so full of creaky bones,” Ilya said.
“Fuck you Rozanov,” Scott said with no heat, “I can still kick your ass.”
“I hope not, you’re teammates this year.” Shane pointed out with a smile as Wyatt returned to his seat. Lisa was still by the bar talking to a friend.
“Da, I need to bring home another victory for my husband.” Ilya said, and Shane’s fingers dug into his thighs, quick, almost reactionary, before releasing.
“Your trophy room must be insane.” Scott said.
“Trophy rooms,” Wyatt pointed out, “We saw at the halloween party. All of Shane’s trophies are in a guest room right now.”
“We need to renovate.” Ilya said, stroking Shane’s side, “Maybe knock out a wall in the trophy room. It was getting too small for mine alone.”
“You’re going to share a trophy room?” Scott asked. Ilya wanted nothing more than to watch Shane right at this moment, stare at every expression that crossed his face. But it would be too much for him, too big of a push when he’s still getting used to pecking Ilya on the cheek at team celebrations. Instead Ilya laid his hand flat against Shane’s side, feeling the tension building there.
“We need four rooms, one for each of us, one for both of us, and one for all the trophies we won when we were competing against each other.” Ilya said, Shane tried to hide an inhalation with a chuckle, picking up his beer and taking a sip. “But maybe we wait until after we win the Stanley this year.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of drawing the evil eye?” Scott pointed out.
“The evil eye can watch too,” Ilya said with a shrug.
Shane’s head snapped around, “Ilya!”
“Or not,” Ilya said, leaning forward for a conspiratorial whisper, “Shane is for my eyes only.”
Scott rolled his and stood up from the table, “I gotta go circulate. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”
“Do you know the origins of the evil eye?” Wyatt asked Ilya.
“Can we not talk about it?” Shane shivered under Ilya’s touch, “I don’t know what that is but I don’t like the sound of it.”
“My little superstitious pepper shaker Ilya said, Shane elbowed him again.
“Seriously, fuck off Rozanov.” Shane said before looking at Wyatt, “Was that Matheson up there you were talking to? What does he think of Colorado’s new goalie?”
Ilya let him change the subject, because he wanted to keep Shane relaxed under his arm.
~
It was a rare morning that Shane got to laze about in the hotel watching ESPN. Granted he’d been up for a few hours. He’d talked Ilya into a morning run around the neighborhood, and Ilya had in turn talked him into the shower. Or tried to anyways. Shane pointed out that he’d be late if he didn’t get going to practice, and Ilya pouted at him on his way out the door.
Shane turned up the volume on the T.V. rubbing his hair with the towel. He’d gone back to shorter, a respectable ear length that didn’t need much attention or styling (but still gave Ilya something to hold on to.)
“–Many fans find this new rule about invitations to All Stars suspicious, as the only person it rules out is Shane Hollander, who was outed last season.” One jockey said, as a graphic of Shane in his new Centaurs uniform appeared on the screen.
“The rule almost kept team Captain Rozanov from attending too, but the commissioner made it a point to extend the invite to him.” Another jockey was pointing out, as if Crowell let Rozanov come out of the goodness of his heart. Shane had a feeling that the backlash shocked him into breaking.
“Which is a shame, I can’t look away from those two on the ice. They’re unstoppable!” The third was saying, “The Centaurs have a real shot with both Rozanov and Hollander on their team.”
Shane dropped onto the made bed, sitting up against the pillows as stats he knew better than the back of his hand appeared on the screen. Goals, assists, awards, Olympics, all of theirs just listed under their posed photos.
“Rozanov and Hollander were both drafted in the same year, and they’ve been untouchable since. Rozanov was singlehandedly putting the Centaurs back on the map over their last few rebuilding years.” The first jockey said as a collection of particularly stunning plays showed up on the screen.
“The Raiders and the Metros certainly benefitted from having them on their team. Since Hollander announced his departure from the Metros at the end of last season they’ve been unable to catch a break, steadily slipping down in the rankings this year.” He continued, and the backdrop turned into clips of his and Ilya’s new signature move, of flipping each other off with their ring finger whenever they had a successful play together.
“Who cares if they’re married?” The third jockey interjected, “sure it was a surprise, but the two of them deserve each other, they’re a cut above the rest of the entire league.”
“Even Scott Hunter?” The second jockey asked, and added the names of a couple more rookies and substantially good players, most of whom were at the All Stars practice.
Ilya had called him a king last night, muttered it into his collarbone as he fucked him into the mattress hard and slow, wringing him out as only he could. It’d taken away the sting, the awkward anxiety of the day. Sure he wasn’t playing at the All Stars this year, but everyone knew it was bullshit.
The jockeys went back to arguing about which of them was a better player, flinging statistics and comparing them in Sochi and the juniors.
Shane’s medals were still packed away, but whenever Shane began to spiral about what happened in Montreal, or the way that Crowell clearly still had it out for them, Ilya would threaten to unpack them all and lay them around the guest bed room.
And then I’ll fuck you, a king in the middle of his spoils He’d say in Shane’s ear. He’d even gotten as far as pulling out the display boxes of rings and putting them up on the headboard.
He’d die if anyone knew how Ilya reminded him of his accomplishments.
Right at that moment as he watched their goals flicker across the screens, broken records listed by increasingly aggravated jockeys, Shane found himself… well…
Shane sucked in a breath and rubbed his upper thigh, ignoring his cock completely. This wasn’t going to become a thing. Next thing he’d know he’d be bricked up at an awards ceremony, sitting next to his husband in that crowded room.
“Fuck,” Shane hissed, and snapped off the T.V. he grabbed his phone and texted Ilya. Are you busy?
Ilya rang back, “What’s wrong, my grapefruit?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Shane let out a breath.
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” Ilya pointed out. He was speaking in Russian which meant he wasn’t alone. Shane wondered if one of those starry eyed rookies were nearby, trying to catch a bit of the shine Ilya spread everywhere. Or if it was just Wyatt bringing up fun facts.
“It’s nothing, ESPN was talking about the whole… thing.” Shane said, digging his thumb into his quads.
Ilya hummed, waiting for him to get out with it.
“They were talking about our records,” Shane could feel his dick hardening and well, if he hadn’t died of embarrassment yet, “How stupid it is that I’m not playing with you. That we’re the best in the league.”
“It is stupid, we are the best.,” Ilya agreed readily, with the easy confidence of someone who knows he’s the best. Knows where he stands in the league, and knows where Shane stands.
“It's um,” Shane’s fingers skated across the front of his shorts, “it's our legacy.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Ilya’s voice dropped an entire register when he spoke again, “Shane.”
“Do you know how many goals you and I score on average in a year?” he’s moving past hard, towards something dangerous. Ilya is in a locker room somewhere far away and Shane is on the verge of jacking off and making Ilya listen.
“Shane.” Ilya groaned.
“Even your first year with the Centaurs didn’t drop you far down the rankings, and now look at what you’ve done to them. To us.” Ilya was just so competent and yes, perceptive. Even in the depressed shitshow of last year he’d managed to drag the team from the bottom of the pile to the top. Make a group of somewhat decent players work together. “You’re so good at hockey.”
Understatement of the year, Shane thought as his hand went into his shorts. His breath caught. Ilya let out a stream of Russian.
“You are killing me Hollander,.”
“They don’t want us to play together because they know —”
A little “Here! :D” popped up at the top of the screen, followed by a knock at the door.
“Oh fuck, Kip is here,” Shane hissed into the phone.
“No, tell him to fuck off, Shane, tell him to go away. Finish what you started.” He enunciated in English like that would change the fact that had Shane ripped his hands out of his shorts.
“Have fun practicing, love you!” Shane said, hanging up on Ilya. “Hey Kip, give me a second,” he shouted through the door.
“Okay!”
Shane stood up and stretched, thinking about how complicated their taxes would be this year. Ilya still had some assets in Boston and U.S. retirement savings that he hadn’t switched over, and Shane had picked up another investment property in Ottawa, close to the rink because it felt odd not to have an apartment somewhat close to the practice facilities. He smoothed down the comforter and went to wash his hands for good measure.
Once he calmed down enough he pulled on the clothes he had picked out, and opened up the door.
“Sorry about that,” Shane said to Kip, who looked up from his phone with a smile, “Let’s get those mimosas.”
~
As far as Ilya was concerned, Shane Hollander was the biggest asshole in the league. The man had the audacity to wrap Ilya so tightly around his finger for over a decade, that even now the smallest hint of anything could drive Ilya to distraction.
It was probably for the best that Crowell had blocked him from being chosen as Captain, it’d taken all of his skill to focus on the stupid practice with his dumb teammates, when his gorgeous stunning husband could wipe the floor with all of them, and had tortured him over the phone that very morning.
The families of the players were clustered around the pool, kids frolicking in the water. They shouted at him as he walked by.
“Ilya! Come play!” Brophy’s oldest daughter said, swimming up to the ledge.
“Tomorrow, little fish. We only have a short break before we have to go get ready.”
She frowned and swam away to the other kids who looked disappointed.
He could feel the heat of Shane’s gaze on him from the edge of the pool. Kip had a book on the small table between them. Or at least Ilya assumed it was Kip’s book because it wasn’t about hockey.
“Those kids have been asking Shane about you all morning,” Kip said, as if he wasn’t Ilya’s biggest enemy at the moment.
“The kids are great, it’s sad that I have to destroy their fathers so often,” Ilya sat at Shane’s feet, nodding his head towards the mimosa. “Having fun?”
“Kip thinks we should do a retreat.” Shane’s eyes are on him, as they should be. Ilya arched a brow.
“A retreat?”
“That makes it sound so formal. Clearly we have a lot to talk about.” Kip said, “and it’ll be good for you all, plus Troy I think. I want to meet Harris.”
“Maybe you just want to be in a room full of hot NHL Stars.” Ilya said.
“I only have eyes for one NHL star,” Kip smiled, “where is he anyways?”
“The captain has special duties,” Ilya jerked his head towards the hotel behind him, “Crowell wanted to talk to him.”
Shane’s look of disgust paired perfectly with Kip’s eye roll.
“Ugh, he’s such a wad.” Kip grabbed his phone, “I’m going to run to the bathroom, don’t miss me too much.”
Ilya waited a moment to make sure Kip was out of hearing range before turning to Shane, “you are the biggest asshole.”
“Were you hard?” Shane asked, mimicking Ilya’s accent, “What? For whole practice?”
“Fuck you Hollander.” Ilya said, nudging Shane’s leg.
“I wish you would,” Shane scrunched his nose, “but you have to meet with the team in two minutes.”
“Two minutes is all you would need.” Ilya pointed out, leaning forward.
Shane pushed Ilya’s shoulder away. “Save it for after the game hot shot.”
“Will you watch me play?” Ilya asked, already knowing the answer.
“We’ve got fantastic seats, it’ll be like I’m on the bench.” Shane leaned forward, grinning, “are you going to put on a good show for me?”
This was … well not new exactly. Shane always watched his games, texted him opinions on the other players and congratulatory messages or chirps if he felt like it. But if Shane was in person at a game, he was usually playing either with or against him. With the notable exception of the Centaurs in the playoffs the year before. It would’ve been obvious how in love they were if he traveled out of his way to watch Ilya play before that.
Everyone knew now.
“What will you give me if I win?”
It’s a nothing game, a demonstration of skills for charity. It’s nothing like the Olympics, or the playoffs. Just a friendly silly game.
Shane’s eyes raked down Ilya’s chest. “I’m trying to think of what you deserve, as one of the best players in the whole league.”
“Hey, I got us another round,” Kip said loudly from a few feet away. Ilya would have to send Scott flowers when he drowned Kip in the pool.
“Thanks Man,” Shane said, reaching out and taking one of the champagne flutes from him.
“Since when do you drink Mimosas?” Ilya asked.
“I’m leaning into being a HAB this weekend. Kip is teaching me how.” Shane took a sip of the mimosa and winced.
“You are very supportive.” Ilya stood up. There was no point in torturing himself right then. He might as well go to the meeting. “I’ll see you after I destroy the other team.”
“Go get ‘em,” Kip said, unironically and earnestly. Shane just smiled up at him.
A pair of assholes Ilya thought, wishing he’d been the one that Crowell had bumped out of the game. He had a lot more practice in torturing Shane than the other way around. Shane usually had no patience for it. As frequently as Ilya needed to get off, Shane felt the power of it deeply, desperately.
“I’m going to drown your husband,” Ilya told Scott outside of the locker room.
“Leave Kip out of whatever you’re doing, alright?” Scott followed Ilya into the locker room, “he texted me that you looked like you wanted to eat Shane up.”
“Of course I want to eat him up, he’s delicious.”
Scott let out a bark of laughter and clapped Ilya’s back as they went to their respective stalls.
~
“I’m telling you I’m in love with her,” Marleau announced to Ilya, continuing their conversation from an earlier stoppage while the rookies were showboating and Scott had the pleasure of arguing with the lineperson.
“What’s her last name?” Ilya, who had heard a variation of this before, asked absently as he saw on the jumbotron yet another retired legend who had made his way down to say hi to Shane in the stands.
“It’s going to be Marleau soon enough,” Marleau shook his head as one of the up and comers got it into his head to shout at the lineperson. “Look at these fucking idiots.”
“Hmn,” Ilya couldn’t care less about the idiots. Shane looked like he was wearing just a basic Centaurs long sleeved shirt, but Ilya had clocked the resilient mustard stain on the sleeve. That was his Centaurs shirt. A shirt that had quickly joined the lazy day rotation and was treated as such. Not Shane’s pristine, brand new one that he only wore for promo purposes. Asshole.
“When did you know you were in love with Hollander?” Marleau asked, checking his tape.
Ilya wished he fucking knew. It was freckles with two handshakes one second and then tuna melts the next with just a blur of Hollander, Hollander, Hollander, between. There’d been a time where he’d agonized over what moment he could’ve turned away and stopped their runaway train. When Shane sought him out in Vegas the first time? When he’d checked on Ilya in Sochi? When they stumbled up the stairwell in Montreal all kisses and smiles? No idea.
But Marleau was looking at him expectantly. “Spin-o-rama, World Juniors. Hottest thing I’d ever seen.”
Marleau let out a burst of laughter and they were called back to the center. He clapped Ilya on the back and skated away leaving Ilya to think. You don’t get it.
He’d been skating for years at that point, a league above the rest – destined to play for Olympics and cups. Yes it was fun but it was also so fucking lonely all these boys stumbling over their skates and tripping on ice. Then there was a smiling, you can’t smoke here, two handshakes polite teen who was what? Seventeen or eighteen? Executing a blink and you miss it Spin-o-rama like it was nothing. Sure Shane had lost the game but that had more to do with his shitty team full of hopeful boys, rather than Shane’s absolute talent.
Ilya glanced up at the jumbotron, Shane was squatting in the aisle and getting his picture taken with two small kids, all three of them smiling as wide as they could. It was as if the game didn’t even matter, the entire audience was treating this like a side entertainment for a meet and greet with Shane Hollander.
As they fucking should. Ilya thought skating up to the next drop.
~
Shane wanted to keep his eyes glued to the ice whenever Ilya was on it, but people kept coming up to say hi to him. Towards the end of the game the visitors slowed down.
The game was tied going into the last couple minutes. Ilya was playing center because he only dropped down to wing for one man, a statement he’d frequently made in video reviews with the Centaurs before sending an aggressive wink Shane’s way.
Fullerton, out of Vegas, was a brick wall tonight, and had been for the last few games delivering shut out after shut out. He’d managed to keep Scott from scoring in the last shift.
Ilya was playing like he usually did, chirping players dumb enough to get close to him, breaking through the defenders and battling it out against the boards. Aggressive and smart as always. The defenders were doing their level best to keep Ilya away from the front of the goal. But that wouldn’t stop Ilya.
He flipped the puck over the net, sliding it down Fullterton’s head in the cleanest Michigan Shane had ever seen. He was bragging and celebrating before the score even registered for the team.
“Fuck yeah Baby!” Shane said, jumping up to applaud as Ilya celebrated with his teammates on the ice.
Ilya’s eyes find him in the stands, and he winks like the asshole he is, but Shane just claps as hard as he can. It was a pretty sweet goal.
There was a buzz building up in his skin. He’s all mine he thought as Ilya skated to the box, smug and happy. One of the benefits of not playing is that he could focus on coming up with an idea to absolutely destroy Ilya in the hotel room later.
“Man, the jumbotron just loves you tonight,” Kip said out of the corner of his mouth, waiting for the cameras to flip away before saying, “I wonder if the staff here is a fan of yours.”
Shane wanted to say who cares? Did you see that Michigan? but he kept his mouth shut. Smiling, but shut. His mind flipping through a rolodex of ideas, hundreds of ways they’d celebrated Ilya’s victories over the years.
Ilya won, of course, and Shane got to skip the post show interviews and insanity because he simply was not involved. A few reporters had managed to find him, but he had equally managed to duck them by signing autographs for kids, letting the families envelope him and carry him away.
“Ugh, they’re like little carrion birds.” Kip said as they crossed the hallway.
“Vultures?” Shane asked, slipping into a stairwell with the crush of people. A few people did quick double takes, that he met with a quick wave as he kept moving.
“Yes, but I think Vultures get a bad rap.” Kip gestured towards the locker room, “I’m going to go meet Scott.”
“I think I’ve had enough of people today, I’m going to go back to the hotel.” Shane started down the stairs.
“Do you want me to tell Ilya?”
“No, I’ll text him.”
~
Ilya’s phone pinged, and he picked it up. They’d been easing into sending each other actual pictures but this one was a surprise.
Shane’s fingers in front of a bottle of lube, his wedding ring shining in the bathroom light. Even with the shitty camera on Shane’s old iPhone (we are millionaires Shane!) could catch the glimmer of lube on his fingers.
Ilya’s mouth dropped. Shane’s text followed just a breath later.
Starting without you.
“I’m leaving.” Ilya announced to the room at large, pulling on the rest of his suit and shoving his stuff into his bag.
“But the–” Scott started, pointing over his shoulder. There was nothing else that he was actually needed for, and he knew that as a fact.
“No. Leaving. Bye.” Ilya said.
~
“Shane?” Ilya said as he walked into the room, kicking off his shoes. He ducked his head into the bathroom, the bottle of lube was gone but the sleeve of his shirt was soaking in the sink.
“Hollander, are you trying to kill me?” Ilya called out. After all these years he still couldn’t help but be charmed by the care Shane took with his things, and by extension now Ilya’s things.
“Come here,” Shane called. “Hurry up.”
“It’s my reward, Hollander.” Ilya reminded him, and stepped into the room. His heart lodged in his throat and all the blood in his body went straight to his dick. Suddenly a little overwhelmed, Ilya leaned on the doorframe.
Shane sat on top of the pristinely made bed, leaning back on the nest of pillows. The muscles in his arms perfectly articulated in the low light, flexing as just two fingers worked their way in him. Ilya knew they weren’t deep enough to satisfy his Shane. His unoccupied hand was on his stomach, fingertips stroking across the hair there, diverting them from the path to his perfect cock, hard and already leaking, parallel to his v-line. His knees were bent outward, and of course, he was wearing socks.
Ilya wanted to devour him.
“Hollander-Rozanov.” Shane said, with a half smile.
“What?” Ilya felt punch drunk stupid. Shane could’ve asked him – well it’s not like he normally said no to Shane anyways. He usually gave in eventually.
“It’s not Hollander. It’s Hollander-Rozanov.” Shane tilted his head, baring his neck and the determined hickey Ilya had given him when the shit had been hitting the fan the week before.
Ilya pulled in a breath through his nose, his eyes skimming down Shane’s body before connecting back with his eyes. The small smug smirk reaching the corner of his brown eyes.
“Shane.”
“Say it.” Shane’s breath caught and he shifted his fingers against his rim, the crooked first knuckle hidden from view but Ilya knew just as he knew this man.
“You’re trying to kill me.” Ilya said.
“Come on,” Shane’s smirk turned into a full smile. “You know my name.”
“Shane Hollander-Rozanov.” Ilya said, feeling like he might die if he didn’t sit down, or immediately fuck Shane into the sun. There was a chair at the foot of the bed, facing it, far from where it normally lived in the corner of the room. Shane was definitely trying to kill him.
“And you, my husband, Ilya Hollander-Rozanov, are a very good hockey player.”
Ilya took two steps towards the bed, grabbing Shane’s ankle, his ring finger against the cotton of the sock, and his thumb against his softer skin. Shane let out a huff that could’ve been a reaction to his fingers, or a laugh.
“You’re the best at hockey–” Shane shook his head as Ilya spoke. Ilya moved his thumb, needing to feel his husband.
“This isn’t about me,” Shane looked so perfect, Ilya felt like he was going to implode right there, small little ashes swirling in the over air conditioned room. “This is about you, and a little bit about us.”
Ilya swallowed, “I don’t need reminding of who I am. I am good at hockey and better at being a husband. Can I please fuck you now?”
Shane shrugged “Do you want to hear what I was thinking about?”
“Hollander –” Shane pulled his leg almost out of Ilya’s grasp, “Rozanov. Hollander-Rozanov. I need to fuck you now.”
“You can wait,” Shane said, “and listen to me talk about your Legacy.”
Ilya squatted at the end of the bed, at this angle he could see everything in a stunning array. The hair on Shane’s legs, the tight furl around his fingers, the slow drip of his cock.
“But Shane, I want my reward!” Ilya whined. “I don’t care about my legacy.”
“I do.” Shane shifted on the pillows so he could see Ilya better, and Ilya thought real hard about what crimes he had committed to be tortured like this. Shane was a menace when he got bossy, not at all nice and kind like Ilya would be. Not that Ilya wasn’t absolutely obsessed with every second of it but would it kill Shane to let Ilya fuck him into the mattress already?
“Then talk about it, moya milaya,” Ilya brought up his other hand to Shane’s other ankle. Shane pulled it out of reach. Ilya just pouted even harder.
“This last year everyone has been shocked by us, but I’ve been thinking about it,” Shane brought his ring finger closer to the rest of his fingers. Lube dripping down his wedding ring. “It’s obvious. I could only be with someone who is fantastic at hockey, someone who could match me on the ice. I would’ve been bored otherwise.”
“We’ll have a trophy room together,” Ilya said, hoping it might speed this along. Shane’s smile was radiant and joyous.
“Four rooms, full of trophies.” Shane shifted on the bed, his ankle flexing under Ilya’s hand. “Even if we both retire tomorrow, all the records we’ve broken, all the impossible –” his breath hitched and he dropped his head back slightly.
“Please!" Ilya dropped his head onto the bed and Shane nudged his forehead with his toe. Dutifully Ilya lifted his head back up to watch him.
“I was obsessed with you, when you beat me in World Juniors. I’d never been handed a loss like that. Of course I had to watch everything released out of Russia. I’d ditch my girlfriend to watch grainy YouTube videos of you playing.”
“She has bad gaydar.” Ilya said, Shane kicked at his shoulder.
“Fuck you we were like 18. I think she’s married to a woman now.”
“I don’t want to talk about her. Talk about me, Shane Hollander-Rozanov.”
“I watched all your games,” Shane continued, “when we were together, when we were apart. Early on I told myself it’s just research, you were my only competition on the ice.”
“Da, yes, the only person good enough to play against you,” Ilya shifted closer.
“But fuck you’re just so beautiful when you play.” Shane’s hand on his abs skirted closer to his stomach, “A Michigan doesn’t usually get me half hard.”
“It would be really hard to play if that was the case.” Ilya set his chin on the end of the bed, “Shane. I deserve my reward now. Do you want me to pull up a link to all my best goals?”
Shane laughed, and Ilya once again found himself so happy that he had a partner he could laugh with, be with, fill up trophy rooms with. “Your reward, should you choose to accept it –”
“Oh I will.” Ilya needlessly interjected.
“– is whatever you want it to be.” Shane gestured to the chair, “you can watch, or I can blow you while you watch goals, or we can do that shower thing you like or–”
“I want to kiss my husband.” Ilya declared.
“Your husband would love that,” Shane said, letting his fingers slow to almost a crawl.
“Good.”
Now it was time to turn some tables, and remind Shane just who he married.
Ilya leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the skin of Shane’s ankle, right by his thumb. He released Shane’s leg only for as long as it took to shuck off his suit jacket, and gently drape it with one hand over the chair behind him. He wasn’t about to risk getting Shane out of the mood now.
He trailed kisses up Shane’s legs, shifting from leg to leg, making sure to bite where calves fed into knees on the inside of his legs. He sucked a kiss into one thigh, before gracing the top of Shane’s knuckles from where his hand was still working himself open. Left handed just because of the ring, Ilya was sure of it.
Ilya kissed the abs, the furred skin close to where his cock laid. He ignored the twitch that Shane’s cock met him with, because Ilya was on a mission.
The starched fabric of his pants met Shane’s skin. He sent a mental apology to Shane’s arms because he just could not focus right now and he’d make it up to them later. He bit again at the corner of Shane’s pec, loving the sharp intake of breath that greeted him. He brushed a soft kiss over the hickey, and another at the crook of Shane’s jaw.
He pulled Shane’s arm up, as he shifted to lay across Shane’s body, he threaded his fingers with Shane’s, feeling the tacky lube collect in the crannies of his hand. He pressed Shane’s hand into the pillows next to his head, and used his arm to prop himself up as he brushed Shane’s hair back with his clean hand.
“Hi,” he said, looking into Shane’s brown glimmering eyes.
“Hi,” Shane responded, Ilya could tell the smug smile was beginning to break, “All satisfied?”
“Of you? Never.”
Ilya leaned forward to kiss him, filthy and wet the way he wanted to do for the rest of his life. Shane met him eagerly, reaching up a hand to thread his fingers through Ilya’s curls and hold him in place. Ilya grabbed Shane’s face with his other hand and tilted his jaw back the way he’d done a hundred times, to give him more access into the warmth of Shane’s mouth.
“I love you so fucking much it’s stupid.” Ilya slipped into Russian but that hadn’t been a barrier for years now.
“Me too,” Shane lunged upwards and kissed him again, freeing his hand to unbutton Ilya’s shirt. “Now that you’ve gotten your reward, can you please fuck me into the mattress?”
“So polite,” Ilya flung off his shirt, and did the same with his pants. “Well since you asked nicely.”
Shane shifted his legs to rest his thighs on Ilya’s hips, where they belonged. Ilya grabbed the lube and put it on his fingers first.
“Don’t tease me,” Shane said as Ilya slid two fingers into him.
“Tease you?” Ilya said in disbelief, “Me?”
“Come on,” Shane squeezed his knees, as if Ilya was a horse that needed to cross the finish line. Ilya managed to get lube on his cock through the grace of the heavens and that was the only explanation.
“Fine,” Ilya said as if he was doing Shane a favor. He pushed in, trying to go for slow but Shane just wiggled against him, trying to shove himself down on Ilya’s cock himself. “It’s my reward Hollander-Rozanov.”
“Ilya!” Shane threw his head back, “Please! I’ve spent all weekend watching you school these assholes, and I just need–”
“You need to calm down, you’ll get what you need.” Ilya said, lifting Shane’s leg to his shoulder and snapping inside of him, “your husband takes care of you, yes?”
“Fuck off,” Shane managed to bite out.
Ilya smiled at that, and set his pace. For anyone else it would’ve maybe been a bit too much, too fast. But not for Shane.
Shane met him, thrust for thrust, yanking him back down for another kiss, almost bruising. Ilya smiled into it, loving when Shane was like this. Needy and desperate like he’d almost edged himself while trying to tease Ilya.
He was too tight around Ilya, and Ilya knew he wasn’t going to last long. His perfect husband made a fool out of his endurance without even trying. The warm grip of him is absolute heaven. Ilya made sure to shift himself, stroking against Shane’s walls until Shane let out the aborted gasp, his breath catching in his throat.
There. Ilya thought, and doubled down, making sure to hit that spot as much as possible.
“Fuck, fuck, Ilya, I’m gonna–” Shane’s fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders.
“Yes, that's right, give me my reward.” Ilya couldn’t feel stupid when the demand made Shane gasp and fall apart in his arms. Ilya wasn’t far behind him, pouring everything he had into him.
Ilya managed to prop himself up for a second, giving Shane a chance to move his leg out of the way before Ilya collapsed on top of him.
“Fuck Hollander, how do you still do that after all these years?” Ilya asked Shane’s pec, before biting a kiss into it.
“I could ask you the same Rozanov.” Shane shifted under him, “I should’ve put a towel down.”
Ilya smiled into Shane’s chest, “give me a moment and I’ll clean you all up.”
“Gross, no we’re going to shower.”
Ilya would bet his last two sports cars that Shane could really get into Ilya cleaning him up. The game was catching up to Ilya, “ok, shower, and then you blow me in the morning as I watch my goals. I want to see what does it for you.”
“You’d probably like it more if you were watching my goals.” Shane pointed out.
Ilya pondered that for a moment, before adding, “yes, or even better our goals.”
Shane’s breath caught under Ilya’s lips, Ilya shifted his head up to look at him. “Shane.”
“Ilya.” Shane shoved at his shoulders, “let’s save that for another night.”
Ilya had already mentally picked out five videos to line up and display on their T.V. at home. “Okay.”
Shane studied him for a moment, unconvinced by his nonchalance. Ilya tried to shrug it off.
“It’s a good idea, Hollander.”
Shane narrowed his eyes.
“Hollander-Rozanov.” Ilya corrected with a grin.
“Fuck you,” Shane said with a huff, getting out of the bed and leading him to the bathroom.
“You love me!” Ilya said in his patented I’m here to annoy you for the rest of our lives voice.
Shane rolled his eyes, pecking Ilya on the lips briefly and adding “Fuck you,” before turning on the shower.
“No, fuck you,” Ilya said, crowding into Shane’s space, watching the smile flash across Shane’s face in the mirror’s reflection. He pressed a kiss to the curve of his neck, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Shane said, before ratcheting the heat up to as hot as Ilya liked it. Ilya just kissed his neck again, and mentally added their last all-stars game goal to the list. That was a good one too.
Epilogue
"Oh, hey Fullerton," Wyatt says, pulling Shane from his wrist exercises. His left wrist is stiff as hell and he absolutely does not want to explain to their physical therapist why.
Out of his gear Fullerton looks offensively young, even though he was drafted out of college. Shane tries not to take the ages of players personally, but they do seem to be getting younger on him. The airport is crawling with All-Stars returning to their teams or heading to their next games. Ilya, Shane, and Wyatt have been waiting to board for a good thirty minutes because Shane had made sure they'd gotten to the airport in a reasonable timeframe.
"Hey Hayes, I wanted to come up and introduce myself," Fullerton stuck out his hand, keeping his eyes determinedly off Ilya, and Wyatt shook it.
Ilya was smiling like the smug bastard he was, "Sorry for breaking your streak."
"The All-Stars isn't really a real game," Fullerton pointed out.
Ilya shrugged, "Asterisk though."
"What?" Fullerton asked.
"He means that if your streak continues there will be an asterisk saying he scored on you during the All-Stars," Shane hoped he didn't sound pedantic. Fullerton frowned at him.
"I mean, I knew that it would be broken at the All-Stars game," Fullerton puffed up, as if a chirp occurred to him, "It would've happened to me sooner if you were playing Hollander."
"Yes," Ilya nodded, "Hollander is a great player, he's rarely had shut outs. His last shut out was ..." Ilya pretended to be thoughtful because he was an asshole and knew the answer exactly, "Moya Lyubov, when?"
"Boston, 2018." Shane gritted out.
"Oh yes, when I kept you crowded against your own goal for the whole game." Ilya smirked at him, and Shane wanted to both tackle him to either kiss him or bludgeon him.
"Fuck you, that was years ago." Shane nudged him with his elbow, keeping his wrist twisted to work out the kinks, "Buddesh was a good Goalie, that's all."
Ilya opened his mouth, ready to shoot back a response, but Wyatt held up a hand.
"Fullerton, it was great meeting you, but honestly this is going to be the next three hours. Save yourself while you can."
"See you in the finals if you're lucky!" Ilya said to Fullerton's retreating back. Once he was gone, Ilya turned to Shane and said, "I think he likes me."
"You menace," Shane said affectionately, shaking his head and checking the boarding pass again just in case. "I bet he's praying not to get into the playoffs."
For Wyatt's sake Shane dropped the topic of the 2018 shut out until he and Ilya were alone and could properly review footage.
Instead he focused on his wrist exercises and ignored Ilya's smirk.