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Sunday, Day 1
The locker room was abuzz with the start of the pre-season. Training camp was kicking off in full swing today as the players donned their gear and socialized with their new teammates. Shane had been through this rhythm before, shaking the hands of the transfers and rookies, giving tours of the facilities, and letting them know he was there for them as their captain. It felt very different today as he laced up his skates. The black and red of the Ottawa locker room was almost jarring after the quiet familiarity of his locker room in Montreal—his former locker room, he mentally corrected himself.
He already knew a good handful of the players, either from stories from Ilya or some of the unofficial introductions Ilya had made this summer at a few low-key events. But it was odd to be next to the men now, in the locker room, without seeing his friends around him. He caught Troy’s eyes from across the room, and the man gave him a warm, supportive smile that ebbed the slight panic that had been quelling in him. He caught sight of the three new rookies this year, Evan Brooks, Marco Alvarez, and Noah Petrov, who were huddled together on the bench like baby ducks. It sucked being a transfer and having to get used to a new team, but he would never want to go back to being a rookie; what a stressful time.
The door to the locker room opened, and his husband stepped through, clutching a large cardboard box and beaming. Shane smiled at the sight of Ilya, then quickly hid the smile. And then smiled again when he remembered he didn’t have to hide his love for the man in front of him—sometimes the habit was hard to shake.
“Okay, practice jerseys for everyone,” Ilya announced, clutching the box to his chest. Shane had been in his position many times as captain, and it still felt odd to be sitting on a bench instead of leading the charge.
Ilya began pulling jerseys from the box and tossing them at the players, calling out names and nicknames with each.
“Hazy,” he announced, tossing the bundle of black fabric at the goalie, who caught it with one hand while he scrolled on his phone—not even looking at Ilya.
The rest of the jerseys came flying, and Shane waited patiently for his, the box getting less and less full until it was empty—and Shane still sat there, jerseyless.
He was about to speak up when one of the rookies across the room quietly cleared his throat and said softly, “Uh, Cap, we don’t have ours.”
Ilya’s smile was what Shane could only describe as devilish.
“Of course not, Alvarez,” Ilya answered, walking to his locker and reaching inside to pull out a much smaller cardboard box. “It’s rookie hazing week, and you get special jerseys for it,” Ilya said, removing one of them and holding the jersey up so the room could see. Not that he really needed to. The hot neon pink of the jersey was so loud it could probably be seen from space. “When we get to the end of the week, you can have your actual jerseys,” he assured.
Ilya tossed the jerseys to Alvarez, Brooks, and Petrov before holding a final one in his hands and walking slowly toward Shane.
No.
He wouldn’t.
“Hollander,” he said with a smile, handing Shane the hot pink bundle.
“I’m not a rookie,” Shane protested, annoyed.
“You are this week,” Ilya said. “Team tradition—all transfers have to participate in Rookie Week.”
Shane looked at Troy again across the room. Troy had been a transfer last season. Troy held up his hands in defense, and Shane had absolutely no idea what it meant.
“Whatever you say,” Shane said, taking the jersey and slipping it over his head with a grimace. “Captain,” he added to Ilya, annoyance hopefully written all over his features. Ilya would be paying for this at home tonight—team tradition or not.
It was nearing the end of practice when Shane finally had time to chat with Luca while they waited for their turn on the ice together. Luca was one of the youngest players on the team and already much beloved.
“So, what should I expect from this ‘rookie week’?” he asked Luca as they waited.
“Oh, it’s not so bad. For my rookie week, they just had us do some minor chores and some stupid stuff like singing in the locker room. Nothing that left too much trauma,” he joked.
“Did you have to do it with any transfers?” Shane asked, but before Luca had a chance to answer, they were ushered back onto the ice, drills overtaking their conversation.
Shane was good at the drills, his hockey experience coming in clutch as he crushed the full day of drills and training without too much trouble. But he was not enjoying his “hazing”—everyone continuously called him “rookie.” It was bad enough having his teammates call him that, worse to be called it by the three actual rookies, and downright unpleasant hearing it from Ilya. But toward the end of the day, Coach Wiebe referred to him as “rook,” and Shane nearly threw his stick.
“It’s only a week,” Wyatt coached him as they headed off the ice. “Stay strong, Hollander.” And somehow, the sound of his actual name—and not “rookie” or “rook”—grounded him. He took a deep breath. He was happy to be here with Ottawa, and if he had to get through a single week of being called a rookie and wearing a pink jersey, he could do it.
After stripping out of his jersey and showering quickly, Shane headed back to his house in the passenger seat of Ilya’s car. He thought absentmindedly about bringing up the rookie hazing to Ilya, but decided against it. Ilya had transferred to this team for him years ago, so he’d have gone through it as well. Shane reaffirmed again to let it go. And more importantly, to let it come home with him and Ilya.
They’d briefly discussed how they’d handle being married and on the same team, especially with Ilya being captain, but this was their first test of it. They’d vowed to keep hockey and marriage as separate as possible, and Shane was not planning on breaking that pact on day one. So he let it go and instead focused on enjoying the evening with his very handsome husband, whom he definitely had not been ogling in the team showers.
The evening was going well. Ilya had cooked a delicious dinner of salmon, broccoli, and potato wedges. Shane had started seeing a therapist this summer at Ilya’s insistence, and his therapist had connected him with a nutritionist. His nutritionist, Jamie, was slowly helping him let go of some of his food “issues.” He didn’t like thinking of his previous diets as “disordered,” but Jamie was helping him realize that the way he saw food wasn’t quite healthy. With her help, they were working on the best of both worlds: meals that were nutritious, but also well-rounded.
It was only 9 o’clock when Shane told Ilya he was ready to head to bed. Between the physical strain of the practice and the slight mental strain of the hazing, Shane was exhausted. Ilya easily acquiesced and followed him to the bedroom. Shane readied himself for sleep, brushing his teeth and doing his skincare, but when he caught sight of Ilya in only his boxer briefs, he was stopped.
He wasn’t sure when he would get used to having half-naked Rozanov living with him, but he kind of hoped he never would. Was this what all newlyweds felt like? Or only newlyweds who spent the first ten years of their courtship only seeing each other a few times a year? Either way, he could not get enough of Ilya.
He walked to his husband and brought their lips together, kissing him with a fervor that made his desire clear. Ilya moaned and pulled Shane into the bed with him, settling Shane below him as they kissed. Shane ground himself against Ilya needily, and Ilya allowed it for a few moments before rolling off him and turning off the light.
“Good night, Hollander,” he said, leaning over to place a final chaste kiss on Shane’s lips.
“What?” Shane asked, dumbstruck and horny.
“We should not do anything tonight. I don’t want you too sore for rookie week. Would not be good look for you,” Ilya said.
“Okay, but I don’t think blowing me would make me sore,” Shane said a little too needily. He was not used to Ilya turning down sex. In fact, he wasn’t sure it had ever happened.
“Not tonight,” Ilya said, ending the conversation. It only took a few minutes before Ilya was quietly snoring beside him. But Shane stayed there, pouting and aroused until he fell asleep much later.
Monday, Day 2
On Monday morning, Shane was handed another rookie jersey. The other players had four different practice jerseys: black, red, white, and yellow. Yesterday, they had all worn black, and Shane had been in bright pink. Today, he was wearing an orange so violent it looked like he was going hunting, while the rest of the team—minus the three actual rookies—wore white.
He swallowed his protests and reminded himself that being called a rookie for a week and wearing a different jersey wasn’t so bad—at least compared to actual hazing. Unfortunately, yesterday had been just a taste. Today, he was forced to repeat everything over and over, even when he nailed it the first time.
A warm-up lap for the team, plus an extra for the rookies. And then Ilya asked Shane to do an additional lap.
An hour in the gym lifting weights for the team. Two hours for the rookies, while the rest of the team enjoyed smoothies. And Rozanov? He stayed in the gym the whole time, watching and micromanaging, driving Shane up the wall.
Every exercise, Ilya corrected form that didn’t need correcting and told Shane his rep counts were off when they weren’t. Shane remembered why he had initially hated him: the man was a complete asshole. Later, he tried to vent to Noah in the locker room—but apparently, being married to the captain didn’t make teammates eager to gossip with you. Shame. He wanted to complain to someone who wasn’t obsessed with Ilya, but even Evan Brooks was out—calling him “Mr. Rozanov” and admitting he had a poster of Ilya in his room growing up. Jesus.
By the end of the day, Shane’s muscles ached, and he was drenched in sweat, desperate for a shower. He didn’t want to admit it, but maybe Ilya had been right to turn him down for sex last night—going into today sore would have been brutal. He stripped down, tossing his sweaty orange jersey into the laundry bin in the corner, hoping it would be cleaned and maybe even incinerated.
He was ready to head to the showers when Ilya stepped in front of him.
“Hollander,” he said, placing a hand on Shane’s shoulder—an unnecessary touch, Shane noted—“help out Dale. Put the gear away and take the laundry down to the washers.” He gestured to the sticks and other equipment lined up against the far wall, where the equipment managers would collect it and return it to the prep room. Next to the door stood Dale, the team equipment manager.
“No offense to Dale,” Shane said, giving a small wave, “but isn’t putting equipment away literally his job?”
“Be a team player, rook,” Ilya replied with one of his scheming smiles. Ah, so another hazing challenge. Shane glanced around for the rookies.
“Where are Alvarez, Brooks, and Petrov?” he asked, confused.
“They’ll get their turn,” Ilya said, waving him off. “Hop to it, Shane. I don’t want to be waiting for you too long after my shower. I am your ride, after all.” He strolled toward the showers, smirk plastered across his face.
“Then you could help!” Shane shouted, but Ilya just waved over his shoulder and disappeared around the corner.
Shane exhaled and went to Dale. It turned out Dale was a great guy, and Shane enjoyed talking to him—but he did not enjoy spending an extra 45 minutes sorting and stowing sweaty hockey gear. By the time he finally showered, his legs were aching, and he was more than ready for bed.
He took the world’s fastest shower, hating to make people wait—and Ilya must have been done ages ago. When he finally found his husband sitting on a bench by the parking lot exit, Ilya looked up from his phone and said simply, “Finally.” No anger, just amusement.
Back home, Shane sprawled across the couch while Ilya prepared a quick dinner—tuna melts. Shane devoured his meal in a few bites, famished after the day, and returned to the couch to watch TV with his husband.
He awoke to Ilya’s arms around him, scooping him up into the air. “What’s going on?” Shane mumbled, still groggy. He must have dozed off.
“You fell asleep,” Ilya said, carrying him to the bedroom and placing him on the bed. Shane snuggled into the covers, but Ilya stopped him.
“Go wash your face and brush your teeth,” he instructed. Shane grunted in protest.
“You’ll be upset with yourself tomorrow morning if you don’t,” Ilya insisted, “and I don’t want to hear you complain.”
Shane moaned but obeyed, getting up to follow instructions. When he slipped back under the covers, he snuggled against Ilya’s warm body. Ilya was reading yet another silly romance novel—he insisted the English was easier, but Shane suspected he just liked them.
Shane had spent half the day plotting ways to seduce Ilya and get back at him for the night before. But within a minute of snuggling into his husband’s warmth, Shane drifted off to sleep once more.
Tuesday, Day 3
Tuesday should have felt familiar to Shane. Media day always was—headshots in uniform, short video clips for the Jumbotron, the usual routine. Most players loved it. Gear up, pose for a few minutes, and then you were free to go home early.
Of course, Shane was last on the schedule.
Harris and the photographers started with Ilya. Shane watched the entire operation from the sidelines as Ilya slipped easily into charm and intensity, hitting every mark like someone who’d done this a dozen times before—which, of course, he had. Ten minutes, start to finish. Easy. Effortless.
Shane killed time chatting with other players while they waited their turns. Every so often, Harris would peel someone off and usher them into his office for “additional content,” which Shane had learned was code for TikTok trends and Q&As—things reserved for the team’s most popular players.
Or the especially good-looking ones, Evan had added with a grin.
Despite the efficiency that would’ve made the Navy proud, the process dragged on for hours. Eventually, it was the rookies’ turn, fumbling awkwardly through poses and camera cues. Harris still hauled each of them into his office, but they were back out within minutes. Whatever extra content they were filming, it clearly wasn’t complicated.
By the time Shane finally stepped onto the ice, everything felt routine. Smile. No smile. Turn left. Turn right. One shot on the ice, one in front of the goal.
Then things got… creative.
Lie on the ice, propped on one elbow. Sit on the bench with his skates resting on the boards. Press up against the glass, hands lifted over his head. The poses kept coming, stranger and more time-consuming than anything he’d seen anyone else do that day.
Shane could’ve sworn he’d been there an hour.
At last, he was waved off the ice and directed toward one of the side rooms the media team liked to use.
“Great,” Harris said with a nod. “Now, if you’re okay with it, can you take off your gear and join us over here?” He gestured toward a backdrop set up along the wall.
“My pads and skates and everything?” Shane asked.
“Yeah. Just get down to your underclothes or whatever.”
Weird. But okay.
Shane stripped down with the automatic efficiency of someone who’d been doing this his entire life. He wasn’t drenched in sweat like after practice, but his undershirt and shorts were still faintly damp from layers and skating. He felt oddly exposed standing there—until Harris handed him a pair of bright red velvet shorts trimmed with white fur, along with a Santa hat.
Shane stared at them.
“What the fuck?”
“If you could just change into that, we’ll get some shots for the calendar,” Harris said easily.
“The calendar?” Shane repeated.
“Yeah. We do one every year. Most of the guys already shot theirs over the summer.”
“Oh,” Shane said. That was all he had.
“But since we’ve already got the cameras set up—and people will definitely want you in it—it’s two birds, one stone. Plus, Mr. December is kind of a big honor.”
Before Shane could think too hard about it, Harris was gesturing for him to change. Shane pulled the shorts on quickly, the velvet soft and ridiculous against his skin.
“Ilya never mentioned a calendar,” Shane said slowly.
Harris blinked. “Huh. That’s weird. He’s done it every year. This year he posed for the October—Halloween theme. He was really into it.”
Shane swallowed.
Great. Apparently, his husband had been posing for a sexy calendar for years, and Shane had somehow missed that detail entirely. He felt vaguely like a bad husband—and suddenly very interested in tracking down copies of every past edition.
Harris guided him through a full set of poses in the so-called Santa costume, if the shorts and hat could even be called that. Shane felt ridiculous the entire time, but he reminded himself—team player. This was part of the job.
By the time he was finally allowed to get dressed again, he felt wrung out.
Earlier, Ilya had left with a quick kiss to Shane’s forehead and a promise: Text me when you’re done and I’ll pick you up. Shane had assumed he’d gone off with Troy to run errands or shop or something equally domestic.
So it caught him off guard when he stepped out of the locker room and found Ilya waiting in the hallway.
Ilya slid an arm around his shoulders, smiling. “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” Shane muttered. “They had me pose for the calendar.”
“The calendar,” Ilya echoed, his tone… strange.
“Harris said you do it every year,” Shane added.
“Yes,” Ilya said quickly—and then, just as quickly, changed the subject. Dinner plans. A movie they’d been meaning to watch. Anything but the calendar.
That night, Shane had significantly more energy than he had the night before. They went out to eat, curled up on the couch afterward, the movie playing quietly in the background. Shane decided he was done waiting.
He reached over, rested his hand on Ilya’s thigh, let it slide upward—
Ilya caught his hand, lacing their fingers together instead. He lifted them to his mouth, pressed a soft kiss to Shane’s knuckles, then gently lowered their joined hands back to the couch and turned his attention to the TV.
Shane tried again. And again.
Each time, Ilya redirected—soft touches, quiet affection, never outright rejection, but never what Shane was asking for either.
Eventually, Shane got tired of trying.
He stood, gave Ilya a quick kiss, and headed to bed alone, irritation simmering just beneath the surface as he shut the bedroom door behind him.
Wednesday, Day 4
Wednesday started easily enough. Another hideous practice jersey—neon green this time. He was sensing a theme. But then it was just hockey. Drills and skating and everything he knew. Everything he was good at.
He was starting to enjoy skating with the team, the familiar burn in his legs grounding him, when Coach called a break for lunch. The three rookies were singled out to go pick up sandwiches for the whole team, and Shane automatically shifted to go with them—only for Wyatt and Ilya to intercept him.
“We have a different afternoon activity planned,” Wyatt said with a smile, steering Shane toward the locker room.
“Hit the showers, Rookie,” Ilya added from his other side.
Shane shot him a look that promised consequences, but he did as asked. Quick shower. Street clothes. Still no explanation.
The silence in the car was immediate and unsettling.
Wyatt drove. Ilya sat in the passenger seat. And in the backseat with Shane sat Rebecca from marketing.
She did not look at him.
“Hey, I’m Shane,” he tried.
“Rebecca,” she replied quickly—and then stared out the window for the rest of the drive.
Weird.
Shane relaxed a little when they pulled up to the hospital. He knew Wyatt and Ilya volunteered here—visiting kids, signing things, Ilya absolutely destroying them at Mario Kart. He was genuinely happy to help.
That feeling lasted right up until Wyatt opened the trunk.
“Oh,” Shane said quietly, everything clicking into place.
“Sorry, Shane,” Rebecca said, pulling out the mascot costume. “Theo was sick and we needed backup.”
Shane looked between Ilya and Wyatt.Ilya looked delighted. Wyatt was barely holding it together.
“I hate you,” Shane said flatly.
“Be a good rookie and put on the costume, Hollander,” Ilya said, smirking.
“I’m filing for divorce,” Shane muttered as he climbed into the suit.
“Okay,” Ilya replied, placing the mascot head over Shane’s.
The visit itself went well. The kids were thrilled. “Chuck” was a hit. Shane posed for pictures, waved, danced badly, and watched his husband light up around the kids—easy and warm and impossibly charming.
It was unfair, honestly.
They dropped the costume back at the arena afterward. Shane felt wrung out, his muscles aching, the hazing week exhaustion settling deep in his bones. He was heading toward the locker room when he spotted Troy.
“Troy,” Shane said. “Hey. Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah,” Troy replied too fast.
“Your hazing week,” Shane said carefully. “Last year. What was it like?”
Troy hesitated. Scratched his neck. Looked anywhere but at Shane.
“I don’t really remember,” he said. “It wasn’t so bad.”
Shane stared at him.
“That’s a terrible lie,” Shane said.
Troy winced. “Look, man—”
“Okay,” Shane cut in. “Got it.”
By the time they got home, Shane’s patience was gone.
“You’re lying to me,” he said the moment the door closed.
Ilya set his keys down slowly. “About what?”
“This week,” Shane snapped. “This isn’t normal hazing, and you know it. And on top of that—” He stopped himself, chest tight, then barreled straight through it. “You’re withholding sex.”
Ilya looked up at that. Actually looked. Shane took in his posture. Rigid, surprised at Shane being s confrontational over it.
“Don’t play dumb,” Shane said, voice sharp. “You turned me down. You’ve been turning me down. You’re doing it on purpose.”
Silence stretched between them.
“You’ll be happy when it’s over,” Ilya said finally. “The team will respect you more.”
“The team will respect me for not having sex with you?” Shane asked blankly. Annoyed.
“No, for making it through hazing week”
“And what about you?” Shane shot back. “Because right now it feels like you’re enjoying this way too much.”
Ilya stepped closer.
“I’ll sleep with you when the week is over,” he said.
Shane froze.
Not hurt. Not shocked.
Turned on. Furious. Interested.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because then you’ll have earned it,” Ilya replied.
Shane let out a sharp laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”
Ilya didn’t argue. He just stood there—close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him, close enough to notice Ilya’s gaze drop.
Once. Twice. To Shane’s mouth.
Shane stopped talking.
He tilted his head slightly, slow and deliberate, watching Ilya’s eyes track the movement. Watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his breath hitched just barely.
Oh.
That was interesting.
“Fine,” Shane said lightly, stepping back. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
Ilya’s brow furrowed. “Shane—”
But Shane was already smiling. Hell or high water, he was going to make Ilya crack. And when he did? Shane was going to enjoy every second of it.
Thursday, Day 5
Shane woke up Friday morning with a new agenda. He wasn’t just going to get through practice—he was going to seduce the hell out of his captain.
It was uncharted territory. He’d always kept things professional on the ice with Ilya, even after moving in together, but this was different. This week was about hazing, about Ilya pushing him, and Shane realized he wasn’t going to let it go unanswered. If Ilya wanted to play games, Shane could play games too.
He donned his jersey of the day—bright, Barney purple—and stretched deliberately next to Ilya, slow, languid movements designed to draw attention. Every glance, every stretch was calculated.
Shane made himself a problem on purpose.
He volunteered for drills he didn’t need to. When Coach called for water breaks, Shane always seemed to end up beside Ilya—leaning in close, sharing a bottle, murmuring something low enough that only Ilya could hear. He noticed every flinch, every twitch of Ilya’s jaw, every almost-hidden glance toward his lips. It was exhilarating, riling Ilya up while Shane kept a grin plastered on his face.
Nothing incriminating. Nothing that could be called unprofessional.
Just intimate.
At one point, during a passing drill, Shane skated up behind Ilya to retrieve a puck and let his glove linger at Ilya’s hip a second too long.
“Rookie,” Ilya snapped without looking at him. “Focus.”
Shane smiled to himself and skated away.
Across the ice, the three actual rookies were being put through their own paces—extra laps, carrying water bottles, collecting stray pucks. Standard stuff. Manageable. When Alvarez missed a pass, Ilya barked at him to do a lap.
When Shane missed one—on purpose—Ilya stopped the drill entirely.
“Hollander,” he called sharply. “Again.”
Shane reset. Took the pass. Executed it flawlessly.
“Again.”
The team exchanged looks. Shane bit back a grin and did it again. Perfect form. Clean release.
“Again,” Ilya said, jaw tight.
By the fourth repetition, even Wyatt raised an eyebrow.
Shane skated back into position, breathing hard now, sweat slicking his neck. He glanced at Ilya as he passed, deliberately slow, deliberately close.
“Yes, Captain,” he said sweetly.
Ilya’s nostrils flared.
By the end of practice, Shane was spent but exhilarated. He had sweat soaking his purple jersey, legs like jelly from extra laps and stickhandling drills, and an internal fire lit from teasing Ilya all morning.
The rookies were told to clean up the cones and nets while the rest of the team stretched. Shane reached for one automatically—only for Ilya to stop him with a hand to the chest.
“Not you,” he said. “You’ve got something else.” Ilya’s voice was low enough that no one else could hear. Shane felt a shiver run down his spine.
“Uh… what?” Shane asked, half-amused, half-nervous.
“You thought it was cute,” Ilya murmured, leaning in just enough to brush their shoulders together. “Fucking with me all day.”
“You thought it was cute, fucking with me all week,” Shane bit back.
“Let’s see how cute you are now,” Ilya said with a smirk.
Before Shane could protest, Ilya grabbed a stick and motioned toward the ice.
“Run through that new puck-handling drill. Full speed. Don’t hold back.”
Shane looked at the rookies, who were watching him with open sympathy.
“That wasn’t part of our rookie week,” Luca whispered.
Ilya corrected him on his form, a finger brushing Shane’s shoulder each time, whispering under his breath, “Faster. Harder. Don’t think you can get away with anything.” Shane’s pulse was racing—not from the drill, but from Ilya’s proximity and the sharp, teasing tone.
When Shane finished, lungs burning, Ilya didn’t praise him.
He didn’t look away either.
Coach Wiebe called him over as he wiped his brow.
“Hollander, a word,” Coach said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, Coach?” Shane asked, still catching his breath.
“I’ve been watching… uh, the extra work Ilya’s had you doing,” Coach said carefully. “That’s a lot for a transfer, even for a week. You holding up okay?”
Shane chuckled. “Yeah, it’s just a little good-natured hazing. Nothing I can’t handle.”
Coach tilted his head, unconvinced. “Okay… well, if it ever gets too much, you tell me. Transfers don’t usually get this kind of treatment, and I don’t want you burned out before the season even starts.”
“Will do, Coach,” Shane said, letting a small smirk slip. The confirmation that even the coach noticed the intensity of Ilya’s plan made Shane’s heart race. This wasn’t normal rookie hazing—it was a personal challenge, and Shane intended to win.
Coach shook his head, muttering as he walked away, “I did not sign up to deal with married couples fighting via hockey…”
Shane’s grin widened. Oh, this was going to be fun.
In the locker room afterward, Shane took his time peeling off his gear. Stretched again, slow and deliberate, right in Ilya’s line of sight. When he finally turned, Ilya was still standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Shane caught his gaze and mouthed, problem?
Ilya turned away sharply.
Good, Shane thought.
That night, Shane was polite. Domestic. Almost sweet. He didn’t touch Ilya at all—just moved around the kitchen in socked feet, hummed to himself, bent down to grab things from low cabinets in a way that felt calculated.
Ilya barely ate.
The tables weren’t turned yet.
But they were starting to tilt.
And Shane had every intention of finishing the job.
Friday, Day 6
Shane walked into the locker room with every intention of ending this ridiculous week of hazing in a blaze of glory—and finally getting to fuck his husband tonight. So when he stepped into an empty locker room, he was, to put it mildly, confused.
He momentarily panicked. Had they changed the practice time to earlier—was he late? No, Ilya wouldn’t allow that for hazing. Was it later? That Ilya might allow, but Shane couldn’t see him committing to it—getting up early to torture Shane wasn’t his usual style.
So what the fuck was going on?
Ilya stood in the doorway, watching Shane carefully as he took in the confusion and suspicion on Shane’s face.
Ilya walked to his locker and began donning his gear like it was any other day.
“Are we early?” Shane asked.
“No, we’re right on time,” Ilya said, strapping on his pads. “Get your gear on, Rookie. I don’t want to wait for you out there.” He gave Shane a sinful smile.
Shane shook his head and followed directions. Whatever Ilya had planned, Shane clearly just needed to go along with it for now. He strapped on his gear and was elated when Ilya tossed him a red practice jersey with his name on it. An actual practice jersey. Not a rookie one that looked like the ’80s had thrown up on it.
Shane followed Ilya out onto the completely deserted rink.
“I thought we had practice today,” Shane said, taking in the gleaming ice and complete solitude.
“No, you have practice today,” Ilya corrected with a grin. “And I, being the wonderful captain I am, decided I’d join you and run you through some drills.”
“Right, of course you did,” Shane said, rolling his eyes. He should have gone and played for Boston instead of Ottawa—just to piss Ilya off. This captain act was getting annoying quickly.
Ilya smiled and began working through drills with him. Shane had to admit it was… nice. He liked spending time with Ilya on the ice, just enjoying the sport they both loved. Ilya was lighter today, less tense, and Shane hoped—prayed—that meant his reign of terror was over. Was he finally going to get laid tonight?
The drills were challenging but enjoyable, and it didn’t take long before Shane and Ilya were sweating and panting, heading for the bench for water and a much-needed break.
As they sipped, Ilya turned to Shane. “Have you ever had to do penalty time, Hollander?” he asked, gesturing toward the box.
“A few times,” Shane admitted. “Mostly in my first few seasons, and never more than two minutes.” He paused, then added quietly, “My mom would always get mad when I got penalties, so I try to avoid it.”
Ilya smiled knowingly, just as Shane had expected. “No wonder she did not like me at first. I’ve spent a lot of time in the ‘sin bin,’” he chuckled.
Ilya stood, placing his water bottle on the bench. “Follow me?” he said, skating over to the penalty box, waiting until Shane joined him and shut the door.
“This is cozy,” Shane joked, feeling the close quarters.
“Mmmm,” Ilya murmured, then added, “Take off your helmet.”
Shane did as asked, and Ilya followed suit.
And then, finally, Ilya kissed him. Really kissed him. Dragging their mouths together with a desperation Shane hadn’t felt from him in… well, he wasn’t even sure how long. All the tension from the week melted away as their lips danced over each other. Shane shucked off his gloves, eager to touch Ilya again, and Ilya followed his lead, their hands clumsily navigating over pads and jerseys—hardly any skin exposed, but every inch of contact electric.
“You’re such a fucking asshole for this week,” Shane murmured between kisses, hating how much he had enjoyed the “hazing.”
“Yeah, took some fucking work,” Ilya admitted.
“Oh, I’m sure it was so hard on you,” Shane said, nipping at his lip in mock anger. A tiny bead of blood leaked from Ilya’s lip when he pulled back—and Shane smiled in victory. Ilya simply licked it away before continuing.
“No, it was hard. Had to order custom jerseys. Plan hazing. Bribe everyone.”
Shane paused. “Bribe everyone?”
“Oh yes, Hollander,” Ilya said, pushing Shane’s neck to the side, leaving kisses and nips along it that Shane had no doubt would bloom into hickeys by tomorrow. “Getting everyone to play along did not come cheap. People like you very much. Did not want to get on your bad side.”
“So you bribed them to haze me?” Shane clarified.
“Yes. I pay everyone who plays along a thousand dollars.”
“What?” Shane gasped.
“Worth every penny,” Ilya said with a smirk. “So hot when you play dirty back. Now Hollander—take off as much of your uniform as you need for me to fuck you in the penalty box.”
Shane paused. “That seems… challenging.”
“You once said you wanted to fuck on center ice. This is easier than that,” Ilya replied, already working to remove bits of his own gear on the bench.
Shane blushed, wishing he’d never admitted that—but secretly thrilled Ilya remembered.
Logistically, it was a nightmare. Both men struggled to get their gear off, pads littering the floor, making movement tricky. But Shane didn’t care. He was desperate for Ilya—and Ilya was desperate for him.
Shane shouldn’t have been shocked when Ilya produced a small bottle of lube he’d tucked into the waistband of his pants, but he was.
“You’ve been skating with that all morning?” he asked.
“Yes, little uncomfortable. But will be worth it,” Ilya said with a smile.
Both men had been able to slide their pants down enough, but it looked rather ridiculous, the breezers caught up in a mess with their socks and shin guards, jock straps on the floor. But the looks didn’t matter, because the moment Ilya had Shane pressed against the glass wall of the box, his thoughts ebbed away.
Ilya was quick to open him up, an expert in the craft after so many years of rushed interactions over the years. It wasn’t long before he was rubbing the head of his cock over Shane and Shane was letting out the embarrassing whimpering noises that Ilya always managed to wring from him when they came together like this.
And then he was pushing inside and it was just too fucking good. All the built-up tension from the week slipping away until it was just Ilya and Shane together. Nothing else existed in Shane’s mind except the incredible way that Ilya filled him.
He’d had evil plans for this. To taunt and tease Ilya when he finally gave in to Shane’s seduction. To edge him, make it last. None of that mattered now. He took what Ilya was offering and gave into it wholeheartedly. His face was dotted with fresh sweat, the combination of the cramped space in the box and the tension of holding back his orgasm too much. And he hadn’t even touched his own cock.
Ilya seemed to have the thought at the same time as Shane did.
“Fuck, stroke yourself, Shane, need you to come.”
Shane did as he was told, giving his cock short, fast strokes until both of them were panting and on the edge. And then Shane took a small liberty: “Feels so good, Captain,” and Ilya lost it.
He came with a deep thrust and a shout of Shane’s name, and Shane quickly followed suit, his cock coating his waiting hand in release.
They waited for a moment afterward, just breathing, panting, taking it in.
“You do this with all the rookies?” Shane said with a slight laugh, backing away from the glass and wiping off his hand on his discarded jersey—he’d wash this one himself.
“No,” Ilya said, and Shane laughed before he continued. “This is just for transfer players. You should have been there for Barrett,” Ilya said with a small whistle. “He was incredible.”
Shane gave him a shove, half playful—he knew Ilya was joking—half real. He didn’t like Ilya joking about fucking Troy.
Shane and Ilya finally wrestled themselves out of the penalty box, gathering their scattered pads, jerseys, and gear. Their movements were slow, deliberate, still catching their breath. Every accidental touch lingered just a second too long, sending sparks through Shane that had nothing to do with the ice.
“I swear,” Shane said between breaths, tugging his socks back into place, “this is the most ridiculous way to end a week of hockey ever.”
Ilya smirked, brushing past him to grab his own pads. “You liked it.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But now we actually have to shower.”
The locker room showers were hot and echoing. Shane let Ilya close the gap behind him, the other man’s warmth and lingering touches sending little jolts down his spine. He didn’t comment when Ilya’s hands brushed over him in ways that made him shiver—it was all part of the tension they’d built all week.
By the time they got home, hair damp and bags draped over their shoulders, Shane couldn’t resist pressing the issue. He caught Ilya by the kitchen counter, tilting his head in mock suspicion.
“So… tell me,” Shane said, voice playful but curious. “Was any of this week real? Or was it all hazing?”
Ilya chuckled, eyes glinting. “Some of it was… for fun.” He leaned closer, letting the words hang. “The mascot thing? Totally made up. Theo wasn’t sick. And the calendar shots… well…” He paused, letting Shane’s gaze drop to his mouth. “…let’s just say I’ll buy a copy if you shoot every month.”
Shane blinked. “…Wait. You mean the calendar wasn’t real?”
Ilya shrugged, smiling faintly. “Not for anyone else. But your shot? Absolutely worth it. Harris might actually do a calendar. Just for you.”
Shane laughed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. And the rest of the team?”
“They were bribed into compliance,” Ilya admitted with a little smirk. “A thousand dollars each. Totally worth it to see you fight back like that.”
Shane leaned in, poking Ilya lightly in the chest. “I hope you had fun with it this time, Rozanov, because I’m coming for the captain spot.”
Ilya’s grin faltered just slightly, but his eyes glimmered with amusement. “We’ll see about that, rookie.”
Shane laughed again, letting himself melt into Ilya’s warmth. Hazing week was over—but the game between them? Far from finished. And Shane was perfectly okay with that.