Chapter Text
Shane Hollander was the best player in the league. He knew that. Well, maybe the second best. It was honestly debatable, because Ilya Rozanov was also the best player in the league. According to the masses, no one had really been able to settle on who was better since the beginning. If you asked the fans to pick, they would be split. If you asked other players to pick, they would be split. If you asked commentators and journalists to pick, they would be split. If you looked at their career statistics, it would put them neck and neck. It was undecided and seemingly undecidable. That was why, this season, the first season to see Rozanov and Hollander on the same team, was so important. Shane Hollander. Would. Win. The scoring race.
Ilya Rozanov had been his rival, his biggest competition, since before rookie season. Really, they had been each other’s only rival, as no one else compared. There was nothing like the thrill of facing off against your arch rival on the ice, ready to annihilate them. Nothing would ever beat it. Even now, playing on the same team, Shane had a hard time deciding which brought the greater thrill, winning games, or scoring more goals than Rozanov.
But he was tired of obsessing. He should be focusing on beating other teams, not his own teammate. This was it, he decided. This season, he would put his all into scoring as many goals as possible and accept whatever the outcome was. They were on the same team now and therefore, theoretically, faced all identical challenges. Whoever scored the most was simply the better player and he would never question it again.
Unless Rozanov scored more. Then he would probably do this all over again next year.
Shane heard footsteps padding down the hallway and resumed sipping on his smoothie. Who knew how long he had been sitting there staring at the wall of his kitchen. “Goodmorning, sweetheart.” Ilya Rozanov paused just inside the kitchen and pointedly studied the wall where Shane had been staring. “What is so interesting? The paint?” Shane rolled his eyes.
“Good morning, Ilya.” He leaned in for a quick kiss.
“Mmm. My husband is watching paint and drinking very yummy smoothie. Very exciting morning for you.”
“Fuck off.” Shane only said it halfheartedly. They both knew he didn’t mean it.
-
The team was split in half, practicing on two different sides of the rink while Ilya stood off to the side talking to Coach Wiebe about skills and plays. Shane idly tapped the puck back and forth in front of him while he mentally worked through a new skill he’d been turning over in his head.
“Hey, I want to try something,” he told Dykstra. “You and Chouinard do everything you can to stop me from scoring.”
“Isn’t that what we always do?” Haas was genuinely confused.
“Yea, but- nevermind. Just- you know what I mean.” Shane skated back a ways and turned back around. He began to charge the net, but, as planned, Dykstra and Chouinard came straight for him, blocking any straight shot he might have had. Shane kept charging and at the last minute, flicked the puck up and tried to pick up speed to go around. The puck didn’t go the way he wanted it to and Shane did not make it around in time. “Shit.”
“Oh! I see what you’re trying to do.” Hayes sounded excited. “That’s cool!”
“I want to try again.” They all reset. This time, as they charged each other, Shane got the puck in the air at the last minute and let it soar over Chouinard and Dykstra’s sticks while he did a quick maneuver around them instead of through them. He caught the puck on the other side and sunk it in the goal, nothing in between him and the net but the goalie. Shane stood there grinning. It worked! It might seem kind of like a trick shot, but it would definitely catch the opposing team off guard if he was ever in a situation like this.
Shane suddenly realized that many of his teammates had stopped practicing to watch him. “Ohmygod, Hollander, that was so fucking sexy!” Shane turned and saw that Ilya and Wiebe had been watching him too. Ilya turned to their coach. “Coach, we are leaving early today. Sorry. Hollander, time to go!” Shane rolled his eyes.
“Fuck off. I’m not going anywhere! I’m two behind you in the scoring race and I plan on catching up next game.” Ilya stared at Shane a moment, face unchanging.
“Nevermind, coach,” he finally turned and said. “I will actually be staying late today. I must practice.” He skated off to the other side of the rink, probably to try to recreate the shot, Shane thought. He knew he should have worked on it privately.
-
“So does Ilya actually get turned on watching you play or is it just a weird extension of his asshole act?” Boodram was next to Shane in the locker room, both changing out of their practice gear. Shane blushed.
“Mmm. Both, I think.” He paused, deciding whether or not to continue on. Somehow, despite having been with the Centaurs less than a year, he already felt far more comfortable sharing with his teammates than he ever did with the Metros. “Ilya, uhm. He likes watching me play well. I think seeing someone that can challenge him gets him, uhm. I mean-”
“I’ll stop you there. I don’t need to know the details.” Brood chuckled. Shane blushed, impossibly, harder.
“Yea. Sorry.” Shane paused again, suddenly worried. “He would never take it too far, though. Like, he wouldn't actually try to distract me. When we're at work, we both know what the priority is. He knows it annoys me, though. And I play better when I'm annoyed, so…” Shane shrugged, wondering for the first time if Ilya hitting on him during practice was his own, obnoxious way as his captain of coaching Shane into being a better player. They would be discussing this later.
-
In the parking garage, Ilya handed Shane the keys without preamble. “You are driving tonight.”
“What? Why?” Ilya always drove at night. That was their routine.
“Because.” Shane waited for him to continue. He did not.
“Because why?”
“I am… distracted.”
“Distracted about what?” Shane stopped, but Ilya was already in the passenger seat with the door closed. He sighed and walked around to the driver's side. “Fine,” he said, as he climbed in. “But you're driving in the morning.”
“Okay. Is fine,” Ilya easily agreed.
A few minutes later they were on the highway and Ilya was unusually quiet, which made Shane nervous. He must really be distracted. Oh god, I hope he isn’t having a depressive episode. There were more good days than bad anymore, but bad days still happened. Shane glanced at Ilya. He was looking at Shane and his pupils were blown wide. “Oh,” Shane whispered.
“Oh,” Ilya echoed, his voice low and rumbly. Shane felt a tingle go through his body. He didn't know what had Ilya turned on, but seeing Ilya turned on always turned Shane on.
“That trick shot you did earlier was… tricky,” Ilya stated.
“Oh, yea, it was. I'd been wanting to try it for a while.” Shane tried to stay focused on the road. Suddenly, he was distracted.
“It looked good.” Ilya was still watching him closely. Shane swallowed.
“Thanks.”
“You looked very hot doing it.” His hand started to creep to Shane's thigh.
“Ilya,” Shane warned.
“Something wrong?" He smirked.
“We can't. I'm driving. It's dangerous.” Ilya’s hand kept making its way up. “If I'd known this was why you wanted me to drive I would have said no.”
“Oh, you would rather me do this while I'm driving?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Shane swallowed again. “We're 10 minutes from home. Just wait.”
“Mmmm can you wait that long?” He had a solid point. Shane wasn’t sure when it happened, but there was definitely a hard pressure in his jeans that hadn’t been there before.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “I can.” Ilya brought his hand back. Shane instantly missed it.
“I don’t think you can.” Shane scowled at Ilya. Only quickly, though. He was still driving.
“I can wait 10 minutes. 9 now.” Ilya was quiet for a second. Shane felt like he was being studied.
“Okay,” he finally said. He leaned against his car door and looked out the window. They rode in silence for a few seconds. Shane couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“You know, if anyone can’t wait 10 minutes, it’s you.” Ilya’s head whipped around.
“Me?” he said. Shane’s eyebrows went high.
“Yes.”
“MHE?” Ilya was incredulous.
“Yes. You have, like, zero self control when it comes to me.” Ilya just stared at him, eyebrows as high as Shane’s. Shane glanced at him, nervous and giddy
“I have no self control? What, you think I could not resist touching you if I wanted?” Shane smirked.
“No, I don’t.” Shane was trying really hard not to smile, but was not being very successful.
“I could go longer than you. You get all needy. You would cry or something, probably, without sex after day or two.”
“Fuck you. No I wouldn’t.” He thought a moment. “I mean I’d miss it, but I wouldn’t cry.”
“Yes you would. You would get all-what is word- doey-eyed if you couldn’t touch me.”
“I do not get doey-eyed!”
“Yes. You do,” Ilya scrunched his nose and nodded. “Is very cute though.”
“Ok, well, you would get all grumpy. You’d stomp around everywhere and piss everyone off.”
“I would not.”
“Yes you would.”
“I do not piss people off. I am very pleasant person. Pleasure to be around.”
“Ha! Okay. Sure, Ilya.”
“Whatever. I could still go longer than you without touching.” Ilya crossed his arms and leaned back.
“Yea, you want to bet on that,” Shane muttered under his breath.
“Actually, yes. I do.” Shane waited a beat.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Am serious. I bet I can go longer than you without touching.” Shane scoffed and looked at him.
“Ok, fine. What are the stakes?”
“Steaks? You are hungry right now?” Shane looked over and saw that Ilya was genuinely confused.
“No. Stakes like, what are we betting?”
“Oh. The stakes. Uhm..” They both thought.
“I know,” Shane started. “Whoever loses has to go on instagram and announce that the other is the better hockey player.” Ilya’s eyes went big.
“On instagram?” He seemed worried.
“Yea.”
“But I have so many followers. So many people would see.”
“Yea, I know. I have a lot of followers too.”
“Yes, but I have more.”
“Oh my god.” Shane rolled his eyes.
“Ok. Deal.”
“Deal?”
“Yes. Loser posts on Instagram to be humiliated in front of everyone.” Shane grinned. After a moment he realized Ilya was too.
“Damn.” He glanced at Ilya again. “Are we too competitive?”
“No.”
“This is going to be miserable.”
“Yes.”