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Ilya isn’t cocky.
Three years ago, he was playing for the Loko Yaroslavl with a guaranteed spot on the Lokomotiv KHL roster, hoisting the fucking Kharlamov Cup above his head. The photo of that memory sits on his bedside table, next to his World Juniors Gold. As if that wasn’t enough, as if that hadn’t inflated his ego far past where it deserved to be, he was the first draft pick of the season–third youngest to debut ever, thank you very much–playing center for the Raiders. And, as of thirty-three minutes ago, the cherry-on-top of this over-flowing sundae, he is the second youngest Rookie of the Year.
Maybe Ilya is a little cocky. He knows it’s an impressive repertoire to carry. He’s heard the way the other rookies on his team talk about him, how Varkov praises him when he thinks Ilya’s left the locker room. Kucherov told him he’s on the shortlist for the Kharlamov Trophy. If–when–he wins, he’ll be the youngest recipient ever.
Ilya tries not to keep track, but it’s a little hard when the sports news alerts on his phone keep reminding him. There’s a handful of podcasts he’s listened to for years, and it seems now they can’t go an episode without saying his name, talking about him (though, and it’s a menial complaint, they keep pronouncing his name wrong–ILL-ee-uh Rose-AH-Noff). Every time he opens Instagram, there’s some ugly new graphic, his name bolded behind a mid-game photo, celebrating some record he’s broken.
He can’t help but peacock a little. Connors ordered him something fancy at the bar, in a little crystalline glass, and it’s far more expensive than what Ilya typically drinks. It tastes a little like how he imagines motor oil to taste, but he won’t complain; it’s not like he can order himself something else (not for a lack of trying, but the big sharpied X on his hand was a dead giveaway). It’s getting to his head awfully quick, and he knows he’s being ostentatious.
But he’s Rookie of the Year, and all of these people are here to celebrate him. So who gives a fuck if he’s a little too cocksure right now?
“Rozanov!” Marleau grabs his bicep and pulls the younger man into a small circle. Ilya recognizes Eric Bennett, goaltender for the Admirals–though not a great one, in Ilya’s opinion–but the other two are strangers. Or maybe Ilya was introduced to them earlier in the evening, but he’s met enough people that faces are beginning to blur. “There he is!”
“Kid’s fucking insane,” one of the men says. “Could be the next Hunter.” Ilya doesn’t mean to pull a face at that, but he does.
“No,” Ilya says. “I will be better.” Marleau jeers, clapping a hand over Ilya’s shoulder. Bennett snorts next to him. Ilya’s not really sure what’s so funny; Hunter is a strong player now, but two years ago that would’ve been an insulting comparison.
“You should see him at practice,” Marleau says. Ilya preens under the attention; none of them are really talking to him, but it’s still a little heady to be the center of conversation, of the party, of the room. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re watching another Hollander. They’re already talking about giving him the A.”
Now there’s a compliment. It’s the first of the night that he’s not entirely sure he deserves; Ilya’s skilled and talented, far more than most of the other players in this room, but Shane Hollander is Shane Hollander; he has over a decade and a half of experience over Ilya. The older boys at the rink used to set up these shitty pirated game reruns after practice; Ilya spent his afternoons watching Hollander debut, watching his meteoric rise to fame, watching him win his first Cup. Shane Hollander is hockey. Shane Hollander is why Ilya plays hockey.
“Shit, Roz,” Bennett praises..
“Well, I would prefer C. But I guess A will do.” Ilya takes a sip, hiding his smile behind his glass. “For now.” Marleau laughs again, far too loud, and turns to the second unknown man, who has yet to speak a word–Pruett, maybe? Ilya knows they’ve been introduced; whoever he is, he’s clearly a defenseman. Marleau asks some small, polite question about Pruett’s–or was it Price’s?--partner.
Ilya takes the opportunity to excuse himself. He turns back to the bar, keeping his head low as he weaves through the crowd. It’s the first time all night he’s had a chance to breathe; no one is grabbing at him, dragging him into conversations with players twice his age, half his skillset. He knows he needs to slow down and conserve his energy; there will inevitably be a bar after this, maybe a club or two that the guys try to sneak him into. Ilya’ll be lucky if he’s home by 5, though he’s not really complaining.
And he’ll admit: it feels good, really good, to have so many eyes on him. What’s another few hours of celebration?
“Another one of those?” The bartender nods towards Ilya’s empty glass.
“No, please.” Ilya shakes his head. “Just a Coke.” He swallows whatever is left in his glass, exchanging it for the soda. Ilya leans back against the bartop, taking inventory of the crowd. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop; he keeps waiting to jolt awake and find himself back in Moscow, alarm blaring for his morning practice.
But there is no other shoe. It’s surreal; he’s not in his childhood bedroom, surrounded by posters of the league’s best players. Instead he is one, photos in Hockey News and on the ESPN website and the sports columns that he taught himself English for. Ilya gets to be the center of attention; he’s the most desirable player in this room.
He takes a sip of his drink. The fizz tickles his nose. People continue to filter into the ballroom: women in glitzy dresses and men in boring suits. It’s getting harder to parse who is here from the hockey world and who is joining because this is the place to be. He can pick Hunter out, hand around the waist of a younger man, and Marleau, still chatting with that defensemen.
There’s a few people he should make his way over and introduce himself to. The CFO of Nike is chatting animatedly with some man. Commissioner Crowell is on the other side of the room, mingling at the other bar. The VP of ESPN–or maybe it’s Fox Sports–is around somewhere. Ilya should network, but it feels good to make people come up to him, seek him out first.
Speaking of which, the CFO shakes the other man's hand, waving him off. The other man turns, but Ilya can’t make out any distinguishing features; he’s clearly a hockey player, broad and built. But the light in the room is low. He parts through the crowd, approaching the bar, and–
Fucking–
“Shane Hollander.” The man smiles, loose, and sticks his hand out. The world around Ilya pauses, funnels down to Shane Hollander: captain of the Metros, three-time Stanley Cup winner, over 700 career goals, hottest man in the NHL, and, as of 2 months ago, recipient of the Conn Smythe Trophy. He’s bigger than the posters and magazine covers make him out to be.
Not that Ilya’s keeping track. Or that he has any of those posters or magazine covers. Especially not the one that was released four months ago, a limited edition with Vanity Fair featuring a very revealing photo spread: Shane Hollander shirtless, in loose gym shorts, stepping out of a bathtub, or the one where he’s doing hip openers, triceps flexed, or the one where he’s hanging off a set of gymnastic rings–
Ilya takes his hand, hopes the immediate clamminess isn’t too obvious, and squeezes tight, firm. The skin of Mr. Hollander’s hand is rough, callused over from nearly two decades of play, of weight-lifting, of work. Ilya shakes and shakes and shakes, holding on for far too long.
The corners of Mr. Hollander’s eyes crinkle as he takes Ilya in, dragging his gaze up and over and around. Ilya finally lets go, hand dropping to smooth out a nonexistent wrinkle–maybe he should’ve taken the suit in a little more, gone with something a little more tailored, maybe a nice wool Brioni.
Not that he owns Brioni. Or really even got his suit tailored to begin with; he bought it off rack with Marleau at a department store. And it’s nice, but Ilya suddenly feels awfully insecure, awfully young, standing in front of Mr. Hollander–Mr. Hollander, in his Brunello Cucinelli two-piece, a deep blue flannel complemented by a bright red silk lining. The fabric sculpts to his waist, making his broad shoulders seem impossibly larger. The sleeves fall just at his wrist, beautiful hands framed by the deep wool and a stunning Glashütte dress watch.
Ilya’s staring. And he has been, for far longer than socially acceptable. Mr. Hollander is looking up at him, eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Mr. Hollander.” Ilya swallows. His eyes flit across Mr. Hollander’s face. “Is a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Pleasure is an understatement, but he can’t parse through English definitions fast enough to find a better word.
“Congratulations.” Mr. Hollander holds up his glass and nods towards Ilya. “No one deserves it more than you, kid. Your work ethic…” Mr. Hollander shakes his head, eyebrows raised, and lets out a low whistle. “You’re hungry. It’s impressive.” Ilya ducks his head, tries to wave away the compliment.
“It is nothing,” he says. Ilya fiddles with his glass.
“66 points in your first season isn’t nothing.”
“You had 68,” Ilya blurts out. Mr. Hollander barks out a laugh.
“And you’re the fastest teenager to 50 points,” Mr. Hollander shoots back. Ilya’s head jolts back up. He blinks, eyebrows furrowed, because Shane Hollander pulled out his stats immediately. Not even one of the records that Ilya had broken–Mr. Hollander was 3rd, 4th now, to 50 points. It took him 35 games. It took Ilya 30. Ilya can’t help but laugh, short and chuffing. “But who’s counting?”
“I am,” Ilya admits. Mr. Hollander shifts against the bartop, biceps flexing in the fabric of his suit. Ilya indulges himself, allows his eyes to linger a little longer than they should. Mr. Hollander is a few inches shorter than Ilya, but he’s got bulk, years of size built up. It makes Ilya feel small. “I know I should not care, but–but it is hard not to.”
“I don’t think anyone else in this room understands that better than I do, Ilya.” Ilya’s name rolls off his tongue: Eel-YUH. Ilya shifts a bit, leans in closer. He wants to hear it again, hear the way Mr. Hollander’s mouth shapes the syllables. “I’ll admit–I wasn’t sure Boston was going to be able to properly handle you. Selfishly, I wish we had gotten you.” Ilya hums, hiding his smile behind his glass.
“You can still have me, never say never, but maybe that would not be fair to the other teams,” Ilya teases. He must imagine it, surely, but Mr. Hollander’s eyes flit down Ilya’s body, lingering on his hips. Ilya unbuttons his suit jacket, letting it fall open around his waist. Mr. Hollander watches. “Besides, it is fun to play you. I think it was three games this season?”
“Yes,” Mr. Hollander confirms–not that Ilya needed it; it was three games. Montreal won twice; Mr. Hollander scored six goals across the games, with a hat trick in the first. He’d also checked Ilya in the second game, a moment that Ilya’s mentally replayed again and again and again (and physically; he’s visited the Youtube video so many times that his phone now recommends it to him every night, and he’s nothing if not easily swayed, tapping back in with a hand down his pants). “Fun is a good word. Challenging, even.”
“Oh.” The word slips out of Ilya. Challenging. The word sits in his chest, tumbles around his brain. He ducks his head, unable to hide the small smile on his lips. “Challenging?” Ilya’s fishing a little. Mr. Hollander gives him a look, eyebrow quirked, and takes a long sip of his drink. Ilya lets his eyes linger on the space where his lips meet the glass.
“Challenging. You’re a good player. Every player in this room fucking hates you,” Mr. Hollander admits. “But they all wish you were on their team. You’re aggressive and confident and smart. That’s a hell of a combo, kid.” Ilya doesn’t bother hiding his smile this time. He leans in closer and sets his drink next to Mr. Hollander’s. Their hands graze; Ilya makes no attempt to move. When he looks up, Mr. Hollander is staring at Ilya.
“Yeah?” Ilya licks his bottom lip.
“Your wrist shot is shit, though.” Mr. Hollander shifts on his hip. Ilya mirrors him, tilting to face inwards. “Your snap, your backhand, fuck, even your slap–they’re great. You’re cocky with the puck. But you also need to be precise.” Ilya hums. He lets his finger trail up the side of the glass, catching a drop of condensation. The move happens to rubs his knuckle against the back of Mr. Hollander’s hand.
“You know, maybe I need someone to help me, sir.” Ilya pitches his tone low, knowing Mr. Hollander will have to lean in closer to hear him over the roar of the crowd. The air in between them grows a little thicker, a little closer.
“Maybe you do.”
“It would be nice to get one-on-one.” Ilya shrugs. “With someone who really knows how to handle a stick.” Ilya takes a sip of his soda. A drip catches on the side of his mouth, and he catches it with his tongue, holding Mr. Hollander’s gaze. Mr. Hollander’s jaw clenches.
“Not many people who could help you,” Mr Hollander says. Ilya shifts on his legs, pressing his hips forward ever so slightly. They’re nearly standing thigh-to-thigh. “You’re better than half the players here. It would take a special skillset.” Ilya never noticed Mr. Hollander’s freckles; they dot his face, up on his nose and under his eyes. They’re beautiful. He’s beautiful. Ilya wants to reach up, touch his freckles, drag a finger over his nose and cheeks and down his jaw and up to his lips, lean in and–
“Rozanov!” Mr. Hollander jolts back as Marleau claps Ilya’s shoulder so hard his teeth chatter. Ilya mourns the loss of contact the second he’s gone, the phantom of Mr. Hollander’s hand lingering against his own. Marleau shoves another drink into Ilya’s hand, bright and pink. It smells like vodka, but when Ilya takes a sip, all he can taste is syrup. “Rozanov and Hollander!”
“Marleau,” Mr. Hollander greets. “I was just introducing myself to Rozanov. You have a hell of a player here.”
“He’s a stud! Rozanov, come’on. You gotta meet Crowell. He’s been asking about you all night.” Marleau digs his fingers into Ilya’s shoulders, slowly pulling him away from Mr. Hollander. For the first time, Ilya feels out of his depth. Mr. Hollander takes another sip of his drink, making no indication that he plans to move with them.
“It was nice to meet you, kid.” Mr. Hollander nods. Marleau starts pulling him more insistantly, surely wrinkling his suit.
“You too, sir,” Ilya calls over his shoulder. Marleau’s saying something in his ear, prepping him to meet the commissioner. Ilya can’t bring himself to care; he can still feel Mr. Hollander’s hand against his. He takes a small sip from his drink. There’s a thrum, a constant buzz under his skin and on his lips. It’s not from the alcohol. Ilya slips his jacket off; the room is much warmer than it was prior.
Marleau drags him into a small circle. Ilya sticks his hand out; Crowell shakes it first, then Hunter, then Hunter’s partner–Kip, he learns. Marleau introduces Ilya, talks him up a bit. Ilya laughs when appropriate, chimes in when needed, and asks the right questions of Crowell. He doesn’t supply anything else; he can’t. Ilya’s mind wanders.
So do his eyes. He can’t help but look over, can’t help but to find where Mr. Hollander is standing in the crowd. A beautiful woman stands next to him, hand on Mr. Hollander’s bicep. Ilya’s eyes linger. Mr. Hollander abandoned his suit jacket at some point in the last twenty minutes, revealing a crisp white shirt that’s painted on. His pants are no better, tight around his thighs and ass. Ilya takes a deep breath, adjusting his suit jacket in his arms.
“Take a photo, Roz,” Marleau says. Ilya snaps back into the conversation, swallowing tightly. He takes a sip; his throat is awfully dry.
“What?”
“I said take a photo. It’ll last longer.” Marleau nods his head over towards Mr. Hollander. Ilya can’t help but sneak another look; the woman isn’t touching Mr. Hollander anymore, and Ilya’s weirdly relieved. His eyes flit back as he consciously reminds himself not to stare. Hunter and Kip exchange a look, a nonverbal conversation happening around Ilya.
“He’s a nice guy,” Kip says. Hunter gives Kip another look.
“Yes,” Ilya responds plainly. He doesn’t have anything else to add. Mr. Hollander is nice, nice to talk to, nice to watch play (nice to look at, his mind supplies, which he doesn’t disagree with).
“Kid’s gotta case of hero worship,” Marleau laughs. Ilya doesn’t.
“It’s good to have someone to look up to,” Hunter says. Ilya’s grateful for the defense. “I lost my mind the first time I met Wagner. Best center the Penguins had.”
“What, in 1904?” Ilya shoots back.
“Hey!” Scott throws his hands up in mock offense. Marleau shoves Ilya, barking out another laugh. Ilya chuckles too, more so grateful that the attention is off of him–him and Shane Hollander–than anything else. Ilya sneaks another glance over at Mr. Hollander.
Mr. Hollander’s already looking at him.
There’s no subtlety. Mr. Hollander brings his glass up to his lips, taking a long, slow sip. He holds Ilya’s gaze the entire time. Want slams itself into Ilya, so hard he worries he may stumble. He wants, wants Mr. Hollander to come back over, wants Mr. Hollander to keep talking to him, telling him how good he is. He’s greedy; the entire room is here for him, here to celebrate him. He wants more: Ilya wants Mr. Hollander, alone.
He can’t help the flare of jealousy that rears its head when the beautiful woman laughs, hand draping across Mr. Hollander’s arm. Jealousy doubles, triples, expands in multitudes Ilya can’t even understand, when Mr. Hollander laughs back, eyes crinkling as he leans into the woman’s touch.
Ilya excuses himself from the conversation, too abrupt to be polite. He abandons his drink on the bartop; the buzz under his skin, in his head, only grows as he thinks about Mr. Hollander. He doesn’t need whatever Marleau has given him. Ilya ducks through the crowd, finding his way to the bathroom.
Only once the stall door is locked behind him can Ilya finally breathe. He feels like a live wire, sparking with the thought of Mr. Hollander. He can’t return back to the party and watch Mr. Hollander. Ilya wants. Ilya wants so intensely that it must blur into need, the line in the sand long blurred.
Time slips away in the bathroom stall. Ilya leans against the wall, trying to calm himself down. He can’t; every time he closes his eyes, every time he tries to still his mind, his thoughts inevitably trail back to Mr. Hollander. It’s as if Mr. Hollander is holding a leash, directing a magnet, dragging Ilya back to him. It’s out of his control. He’s not sure he wants it any other way.
Ilya takes his time washing his hands. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He doesn’t want to go to another club or bar or venue where the bouncer conveniently forgets to check his ID. He doesn’t want Marleau to drag him into some stripclub. He wants to go home and pull up that video of Mr. Hollander checking him into the boards and relieve whatever is thrumming at the base of his spine. He’s worked up, and the more he thinks about it, the sooner it will become everyone’s problem.
The stall door behind him opens and shuts; Ilya startles. Mr. Hollander joins the sink next to him. Ilya continues running his hands under the water, watching it swirl down the drain, looking anywhere except at Mr. Hollander’s hands, big and strong and callused. He tries not to think about those hands around his waist, around his neck, in his mouth. He tries not to think about pinning those hands down, about how they would scratch against his back.
So much for not getting himself worked up.
Ilya glances up, meeting Mr. Hollander’s eyes in the mirror. Ilya finally shuts the water off, placing his hands on either side of the sink.
“Sir–” Ilya’s voice cracks.
“Don’t.” Mr. Hollander turns the water off. He places his palms on the counter top, leaning against the sink.
“Sir, please.”
“We shouldn’t.”
“Please, Mr. Hollander–”
“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” Mr. Hollander turns abruptly, crowding him against the bathroom wall. “Or are you just begging to beg?”
“I am asking for you,” Ilya whispers. Mr. Hollander’s cheeks are flushed a pretty red, high at their apples. “I want you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Do not tell me what I should and should not want.”
“Do not talk back to me,” Mr. Hollander orders. He reaches a hand up to Ilya’s nape and threads it through his curls, pulling. Ilya swallows hard, the column of his neck exposed. He has half the mind to not start begging, pleading for Mr. Hollander to mark him up and bruise him so pretty, right where everyone can see.
“Please, sir.” Ilya gazes down at him through heavy eyelids. “Please.”
“Are you sure you want this?”
“I do not think I have ever wanted anything more, Mr. Hollander.” Mr. Hollander closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The warm air tickles Ilya’s collarbones. The muscles at the side of Mr. Hollander’s jaw clench and release, over and over again. Ilya counts to 30 before Mr. Hollander finally opens his eyes again.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Ilya.” Mr. Hollander takes Ilya’s chin between his fingers, forcing them to make eye contact. “You are going to leave this bathroom first. You are going to be good and mingle for another twenty minutes. If, after that, you still want this, you are going to find me in the coatroom adjacent to the bar.”
“Yessir,” Ilya whispers.
“Good boy.” Mr. Hollander pulls away from the wall, releasing Ilya’s head. He whines as Mr. Hollander detangles his fingers from Ilya’s curls. “You need to adjust yourself before you return to the party.” Ilya blushes, shoving a hand down his pants to try and tuck his dick. Mr. Hollander quirks an amused eyebrow at him. “I’ll be in the coatroom.”
“I will find you.”
Ilya tries to smooth out his curls as he leaves the bathroom. Not even five steps out and Connors is pulling him towards a group of rookies, all visibly drunk and fawning over Ilya. The attention is too much now; it scratches at the back of his brain, all wrong. He doesn’t want to be in this room, around these people.
He checks his watch. Seventeen minutes to go.
What proceeds must go down in history as the longest twenty minutes. He imagines time physically dragging, the hands of his Longines slugging through honey. Ilya regrets abandoning his glass; he wants something, anything to do with his hands. There’s too much energy in his body, he’s too high-strung, and it has nowhere to go. He’s growing increasingly irritated with each poor joke the rookies make. Marleau keeps touching him, grabbing on to Ilya every time he laughs. It’s not funny. Right now, nothing is funny.
He checks his watch again. Twelve minutes.
Ilya aches. The physical throb of his cock is mirrored by something in his gut. He doesn’t want to wait here any longer, making pointless small-talk while Mr. Hollander waits for him. Ilya glances over towards the coatroom, not more than twenty meters away. Twenty strides–fifteen if he pushes it–between him and Mr. Hollander. He could turn, leave this conversation, and be pressed against Mr. Hollander in mere seconds.
But Ilya waits. Ilya waits because Mr. Hollander told him to. There’s no other option; he has to be good. It’s as though the command has wrapped itself around his very being, strung itself alongside his nerves; there’s no option to disobey. He’s good. He listens.
Three minutes.
Ilya’s a dog, and Mr. Hollander has said the word treat. He’s vibrating out of his own skin, stumbling and circling around an all-too-composed Mr. Hollander. Ilya fidgets and shifts and squirms, ignoring the company around him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, with his body. He squeezes his thighs together, too crudely, too publicly. It doesn’t matter; surely the want, the desire, is written so plainly on his face that anyone can tell.
The minute hand barely graces 12 by the time Ilya’s moving. He doesn’t bother excusing himself from the conversation. Fuck, he needs to find Mr. Hollander. He needs Mr. Hollander.
Ilya stumbles into the coatroom, tripping over his own feet. It’s a small space, an oversized closet with a large floor-to-wall wooden divider in the middle. The front section is overflowing with jackets and suits; Ilya can’t see into the second section from the doorway. Mr. Hollander leans against the wall, watching Ilya with an eyebrow quirked.
Ilya opens his mouth. He promptly closes it. Mr. Hollander shifts, crossing his legs. His pants bunch, visibly folding around his cock. Ilya swallows, tight and dry; he wants to say something, but he can’t find the right words, the right thoughts, to cut through the tension.
“Ilya.”
“Mr. Hollander.” Neither of them make any attempt to move. Mr. Hollander drags his gaze up Ilya’s body, past his thighs, past his throbbing dick, up his chest and neck, before resting them on Ilya’s face. Ilya shifts on his feet, squeezing his thighs together. “Please.”
“You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”
“You, please, anything sir. I am asking for anything,” Ilya begs. “Please. I want you. Whatever you will give me. I need–”
“You need to tell me what you actually want, puppy.” Mr. Hollander teases. “You can’t just beg.”
Oh.
Ilya whines.
“Come here,” Mr. Hollander beckons. Ilya’s feet move before he registers the command. Mr. Hollander tucks a hand around Ilya’s waist, pulling him into the obscured back room. It’s nearly empty; a few pairs of heels are scattered around, and there’s a lone bench tucked in the corner. “Good boy.”
“Yes–that. I want that,” Ilya says. Mr. Hollander maneuvers Ilya against the wall, crowding, surrounding him. He’s so broad, white shirt stretched so tight over his shoulders, around his chest. There’s nowhere Ilya can go to escape him, no where Ilya can move. It’s him and Mr. Hollander; his world narrows. Ilya whines again, high and loud. “I want to be good for you, sir.”
“Thank you, Ilya.” Mr. Hollander pulls Ilya’s head down, cups a hand around his jaw. He pulls Ilya into a gentle kiss, mouth hot and wet. Ilya melts, fisting the front of Mr. Hollander’s dress shirt. The buzz in his head returns, heady and loud. He whines into Mr. Hollander’s mouth; everything is so soft, his lips, the fabric of his shirt, the noises that Ilya can’t help but let slip into the kiss.
The twenty minutes was worth it. More than worth it; Ilya would’ve waited hours, days for this. Mr. Hollander’s attention is on him, no one else. Mr. Hollander pets along his cheekbone, rough callouses scratching against Ilya’s jaw. The feeling consumes him; Mr. Hollander consumes him, in lips and body and mind and spirit.
Ilya deepens the kiss, swiping his tongue along the bottom of Mr. Hollander’s lips. Mr. Hollander threads a hand through Ilya’s curls, tilting his head. Ilya lets him, acquiescent. He’d let Mr. Hollander do anything, he thinks. Ilya’s dick throbs against his zipper; his lips buzz against Mr. Hollander’s. The ache in his groin builds, a hot flame licking up his spine. He whines.
Ilya’s a lighter, sparkwheel finally catching and igniting. He can’t help but moan into Mr. Hollander’s mouth, against his lips. Ilya paws uselessly at Mr. Hollander, anywhere he can reach. Ilya flounders, suave bravado gone, victim to Mr. Hollander, his lips, his hands, his presence.
“Please,” Ilya begs against Mr. Hollander’s mouth. He clunches weakly at Mr. Hollander’s biceps, feeling the muscles shift and flex under his hands.
“Fuck.” Mr. Hollander’s voice is raw. Ilya’s hips stutter forward, catching on Mr. Hollander’s thigh. A ragged moan tears through his body, so loud that it must reach through the coatroom, into the bar and party. The pressure is delicious, white-hot behind his eyelids. He needs more. “I’m not going to let you fuck me tonight, puppy.”
Ilya whines, opening his mouth to protest. Mr. Hollander holds up a single finger, eyebrow quirked. Ilya shuts his mouth.
“I know,” Mr. Hollander coos. Heat races up Ilya’s face. He swallows, tight and dry. “You can’t go home with me. People are going to be looking for you after the party, Ilya. You don’t want them to start wondering, do you?”
“No,” Ilya mumbles. He’s lying; he wouldn’t mind if people wondered where Mr. Hollander is taking him, why the two of them are leaving so abruptly, alone. Ilya’s hips twitch forward again; it feels so good, the combination of his suit pants, Mr. Hollander’s firm thigh, and the fact that Ilya is so fucking hard that he can feel it in his fucking teeth. He can’t help it; he can’t stop.
“I know,” Mr. Hollander repeats, drawing out each syllable. Ilya moans, an aborted sound that catches in his throat. Mr. Hollander shushes him, raising an eyebrow as if Ilya is a petulant child. Ilya bites the inside of his mouth so hard that it stings. “You need to be quiet, Ilya.”
Mr. Hollander’s hands come down and grip his hips, thumbs running along his hipbones. His hands are so big, wrapping, encompassing Ilya’s slender hips. He just holds, surely feeling how every muscle in Ilya’s body responds to his touch, his presence, twitching and fluttering entirely out of Ilya’s control. It’s not enough; Ilya’s greedy, sinfully so.
His own thighs quiver against Mr. Hollander, strong and stable, as arousal floods through him, overflowing, toomuchnotenough. Ilya tucks his head into the side of Mr. Hollander’s neck, mouthing wetly. The flame in his gut licks even higher, melts him like wax over the side of a candle, dripping, pooling on the floor. If it weren’t for Mr. Hollander, his strong hands, how he crowds Ilya against the wall, Ilya would surely be nothing more than a puddle on the coatroom floor.
Ilya allows himself to indulge. He whines into Mr. Hollander’s skin. His hips twitch forward again, more deliberately. Mr. Hollander’s thigh is so firm under his dick, so well worked. He’s had years on Ilya to train, to work up every minute muscle in his body, sculpt himself to peak performance. Mr. Hollander’s quad flexes and unflexes between Ilya’s thighs, under Ilya’s dick. Ilya shudders, pleasure racking his body so fast that his vision goes blurry.
Ilya can’t help himself.
“Just make yourself feel good, puppy. Take what you need,” Mr. Hollander whispers, breath ghosting Ilya’s ear. Mr. Hollander brings his hands up to Ilya’s biceps, releasing his hips. Ilya sobs. The floodgates open. He needs something to hump against, anything to relieve the pressure building up and up and up, through his core and spine and around his brain. He’s helpless to stop himself, as though Mr. Hollander’s approval has overwritten his remaining self-control. It’s not about what he wants, it’s about what Mr. Hollander will let him have. “There’s a good boy, listening so well.”
Oh.
Mr. Hollander drags the words out, slow and controlled. Ilya whines and presses himself tighter against Mr. Hollander, against his broad chest. He pants, hot and open-mouthed into Mr. Hollander’s nice dress shirt, hips thrusting an uneven rhythm against his firm thigh. The friction feels so good as Ilya rubs himself all over Mr. Hollander. He can’t help it.
“I’m not going to tell you again, Ilya.” Mr. Hollander’s lips brush Ilya’s ear, voice low and gravely. He digs his fingers into Ilya’s biceps. Ilya’s face, still tucked into the corner of Mr. Hollander’s neck, burns. Surely Mr. Hollander can feel it, can feel how flushed he is, how affected he is. “You need to be quiet.”
“S-sorry,” Ilya whimpers into Mr Hollander’s skin. Mr. Hollander’s pulse flutters against his lips, fast and irregular. Ilya grinds forward again, dick catching on the fold of Mr. Hollander’s own erection. Mr. Hollander sucks in a breath, sharp and pointed. “I’m s’rry, sir.”
“You can’t let anyone hear you, puppy,” Mr. Hollander whispers. He brings a hand down to Ilya’s hips, helps drag him along Mr. Hollander’s thigh. Mr. Hollander’s fingers dig into the meat of his ass; Ilya has to bite his lip to keep from keening. He’ll surely be bruised through the weekend, maybe even into mid-week, if he’s lucky. The boys will razz him in the locker room, asking him who the lucky lady is. “You don’t want anyone to come investigating, do you?”
“N-ooo,” Ilya whimpers pathetically. “No. Wanna–wanna be good, Mr. Hollander. Promise.” Mr. Hollander has the gall to laugh, short and sharp. The sound zips through Ilya, molten hot and overwhelming.
“Yeah,” Mr. Hollander coos. Ilya nods, stupid off of pleasure, off of the presence of Mr. Hollander, off of how all-consuming his thigh is against Ilya’s dick. “I know it feels good. You just can’t let everyone out there know. They’d come looking for you, and I don’t want to share you with them. Not like this.”
Ilya mouths against Mr. Hollander’s neck, tongue laving over his pulsepoint. He’s so close, everything feels so good. Humiliation prickles at the back of his neck, taunting him, Ilya Rozanov, because he’s going to cum in his pants just from grinding against Shane fucking Hollander. Ilya whines, a string of drool trailing down his lip and on to Mr. Hollander’s collar. He can’t stop rubbing, grinding up against Mr. Hollander; it feels so silly, so good.
“You have the hotel keys, right?” The man’s voice startles Ilya upright. He stills his hips, shooting a concerned look at Mr. Hollander. Mr. Hollander grins back at him, all teeth.
“Yeah,” another man responds. The voices are familiar, but Ilya can’t pull himself together enough to place them. His abs clench, hips twitching forward. The lack of pressure aches, gnawing at the base of his spine. “They’re in my coat pocket.”
I didn’t say stop, Mr. Hollander mouths. The hand on Ilya’s hip urges him forward, back down, into Mr. Hollander. Ilya holds his breath; something will slip, give them away, if he doesn’t. Mr. Hollander holds his gaze, eyes dark. Keep going.
Ilya stills for another second. His eyes flicker uselessly between Mr. Hollander and the floor. As fun as it is to wonder what would happen if they got caught, it would have career-lasting implications for both of them. Mr. Hollander reaches a finger up to smooth out the worry between Ilya’s brow, gaze softening.
It’s ok, Mr. Hollander mouths. He pets a finger along the side of Ilya’s face. Trust me, puppy.
And Ilya does. Ilya trusts him far too easily. It’s almost naive, so childish, but something in his body tells him to listen. He trusts that Mr. Hollander will take care of him; even if they are caught, Mr. Hollander will know what to do. He’s so smart, so thoughtful; Ilya can’t help but trust him, but keep going, keep rubbing along his thigh.
Ultimately, Ilya listens, because there’s no other option. Yes, Mr. Hollander, I’ll keep going. I trust you. I’ll keep humping you in this coatroom, our coworkers and peers just four feet away. Yes, Mr. Hollander. Whatever you want, Mr. Hollander.
“Did you see the way Rozanov was looking at Hollander?” Fuck. Ilya freezes again. Coworkers and peers is an understatement; that’s Scott Hunter.
“Holy shit. Yeah, I thought I was the only one.” And that must be Kip. The corner of Mr. Hollander’s mouth curls up.
Keep going, Mr. Hollander mouths. Mr. Hollander digs his fingers into Ilya’s ass, dragging him, forcing him forward. It feels so good that Ilya could choke on it, bubbling up his throat. It feels so good that surely this will fry his nerves, ruin him for anyone else. He’s a puppet, useless to resist Mr. Hollander’s ministrations.
“Hero worship my ass.” Someone snorts. Ilya grinds deeper, harder on Mr. Hollander’s thigh. “I’d put good money on the odds that Rozanov has a poster of Hollander somewhere in his bedroom. Wonder if he’s jerked off to it.”
“Like you and that fucking Wagner poster?” They’re finally taking coat hangers off the rack, fabric rustling. Ilya shoves his face back into Mr. Hollander’s neck, mouthing wetly at the exposed skin. Mr. Hollander urges him forward again, Ilya’s dick catching on a fold of fabric. Fuck, he can’t–Ilya can’t keep quiet, not with Mr. Hollander holding him, forcing him forward, again and again and again.
“Keep talking shit about it and I’m putting one up in our bedroom.” Ilya gasps, short and sweet. Mr. Hollander threads a hand through his curls and forces Ilya’s face closer, nose pressed so tightly against his neck that it hurts.
“Kinky.”
“Oh fuck you.” The fabric rustling gets louder, closer. Ilya’s heart skips a beat, drops into the pit of his stomach, because what if? What if Scott and Kip come around the corner? There’s nowhere for them to hide. Ilya’s trapped, pinned down by Mr. Hollander’s hands and thigh and body.
Or–what if they have seen the whole thing? What if they know already? Ilya can’t see into the main section; he can’t see the doorway. He has no way to know if they’re right there, watching. But he trusts; he trusts Mr. Hollander, trusts the hands on his hips that keep guiding him forward.
Fuck. Isn’t that heady?
“If you’re lucky, sure.”
The rustling stops, and heavy footsteps trail out of the room. A whine slips out of Ilya, high and needy. Mr. Hollander doesn’t bother shushing him, just continues to drag Ilya’s hips along his thigh. The rhythm is so rough, carving away at Ilya, at his very being. Ilya shakes against Mr. Hollander, whining and mumbling and moaning. The noises slip out of him, lips too loose to control himself.
It’s so much. It’s not enough. Ilya wants to stay here forever, trapped under Mr. Hollander, against his thigh. The press of the fabric, of the other man’s body, against his dick is all-consuming, so deliciously lighting up his brain and body. He feels it through his fingers, down his spine.
“Sir–sir–I am not going t’last,” Ilya warns. He prays the words come out in English, prays the part of his brain that translates is still online. Ilya can’t stop rubbing, grinding himself down on Mr. Hollander’s thigh; he’s lost any rhythm, any control. All he wants is to feel good.
“Stop humping,” Mr. Hollander hisses into Ilya’s ear. Ilya’s hips stutter. If it weren’t for Mr. Hollander’s hand, now forcing his hips back, still, Ilya wouldn’t be able to control himself. He tucks his head into Mr. Hollander’s collar and whines.
“Please, sir, please,” Ilya begs. He feels like a fool, begging for nothing, something, anything. He wants to keep humping against Mr. Hollander’s thigh, he wants to cum, he wants to be loud and whiney, and–perhaps, most shamefully, blushing as he even processes the thought–he wants everyone here to know how affected he is. He wants everyone to know that he–Ilya fucking Rozanov, Rookie of the Year–has Mr. Hollander’s undivided attention to himself.
“You are not going to cum on my pants,” Mr. Hollander says simply. Ilya blinks up at him. Mr Hollander takes the younger man’s chin in between his fingers. “I am not explaining some lewd stain to my tailor nor my drycleaner.”
“Oh,” Ilya says. The words come out a little vacant; Ilya can’t help it. It makes so much sense; of course Mr. Hollander doesn’t want Ilya’s cum stains, and he has to drag the words out, dumb it down a little, to get them into Ilya’s head. Mr. Hollander pulls Ilya’s head back, hand still tangled in his curls. It stings. The pain is delicious.
Mr. Hollander leans back, releasing Ilya’s body against the cool wood divider. Ilya whines at the loss of contact, the loss of Mr. Hollander’s body, surrounding him. He wants to beg, wants to plead Mr. Hollander to come back, to keep pressing into him, to never leave him again. He can’t find the words, can’t swim through the honey filling his head, can’t get his mouth to shape around the English syllables.
He makes quick work of pulling Ilya out. Ilya whines at the cold air, at the friction of Mr. Hollander’s calloused hand against his dick, at being touched for the first time in the night. Mr. Hollander holds a hand up under Ilya’s chin.
“Spit.” Ilya listens, obeys, follows the command. Yessir, I’ll spit sir, whatever you want sir, whatever I can give you sir. “Good boy.”
Mr. Hollander wraps his hand around Ilya, tight. The pace is immediately punishing, too much. Ilya paws at Mr. Hollander’s shoulders, biting his lip to keep from whining, from sobbing. It’s a Herculean feat, staying quiet, harder than any of the games he’s played or goals he’s scored
“Fuck, puppy.” Mr. Hollander’s hand quickens around Ilya’s dick. “Do you even know how to use all this?” Mr. Hollander thumbs under his slit, bringing a hand up to trace along Ilya’s jaw. Ilya whines, useless and stupid; he does, he wants to say, he knows how to use it!
“Yes, yessir,” Ilya pants. He can’t–fuck–Mr. Hollander’s hand feels so good, wrapped around him, squeezing him. Every muscle in Ilya’s body clenches and releases without consent, succumbing to Mr. Hollander. “I would be so good for you, I promise. Please, sir, please.”
“I know,” Mr. Hollander coos. Ilya sobs.
“Please, Mr. Hollander–” Ilya moans, cutting off his own words. Pathetically, he realizes Mr. Hollander is right: he doesn’t know what he’s begging for. Please, Mr. Hollander, keep jerking me off! Please let me fuck you, please let me make you cum! Please, please, please!
The pressure at the base of his spine is building so fast, pleasure entwined around each vertebrae, climbing his spine and wrapping around the base of his brain. It feels like all he knows, all he’s ever known, so all-encompasing-all-consuming. His cup runneth over, his pot boiling too high, water flooding the sides and burning off on the stovetop.
He’s limp, useless against Mr. Hollander, in his hands. Sobs tumble out of him, noises falling from his lips so fast that he can’t discern where one starts and the other begins. It’s pathetic–he’s pathetic, Mr. Hollander’s hand wrapped around his cock, losing it in a hotel coatroom.
There’s nowhere Ilya’d rather be. This coatroom is heaven, hell, where Mr. Hollander has pulled him apart and put him back together. His body sings. The pleasure erodes at him, crashing over his edges and wearing him down until he’s nothing, soft and smooth in Mr. Hollander’s hands.
His orgasm shouldn’t take him by surprise.
But it does. Ilya wails, far too loud, too obvious, fisting Mr. Hollander’s button-up. Every muscle in his body vibrates, clenches, releases, as he cums, falls apart into Mr. Hollander’s hand. White-hot, his orgasm erupts behind his eyes, through his fingers, burning him up from the inside. Surely Mr. Hollander can feel it, can feel how utterly consumed he is, how the air between them blazes.
This is his peak, in pleasure and mind and body and being, trapped against the wall, against Mr. Hollander’s body.
Ilya doesn’t know how long he stays there, leaning against Mr. Hollander. His heart slams in his chest, mirroring Mr. Hollander’s under Ilya’s hand. Ilya consciously reminds himself to let go, fingers unclenching Mr. Hollander’s shirt one-by-one. He whines at the loss, as if he wasn’t the one to let go.
Mr. Hollander shushes him, petting a hand up and down Ilya’s side. Mr. Hollander takes an exaggerated breath in, holding Ilya’s eyes. Ilya mirrors him, in and out and in and out. He comes back into himself slowly, the buzz in his brain weakens. Ilya lets himself linger, lets the feeling drip through his body, content to stay in Mr. Hollander’s arms for as long as he’ll allow.
“Lick, puppy.” Mr. Hollander’s voice is soft as he holds his cum-covered hand in front of Ilya’s mouth.
“Huh?”
“You need to clean up your mess,” Mr. Hollander says plainly. “Lick.”
And Ilya listens because there’s no other option; there’s no world in which he doesn’t listen to Mr. Hollander, follow his commands. He scrunches his nose at the taste of his own cum, bitter and slightly sweet. He sucks Mr. Hollander’s fingers into his mouth, licks them clean. Mr. Hollander watches him through lidded eyes, jaw clenched.
“Good boy.” Ilya preens.
Mr. Hollander pulls his fingers out of Ilya’s mouth slowly, wiping the spit on his pants leg. He tucks Ilya back into his pants, hands gentle, then reaches down to adjust himself. Mr. Hollander threads his fingers through Ilya’s curls, softly playing with his hair; Ilya hums. His skin buzzes with the contact, the hand in his hair almost as pleasurable as it was when it was wrapped around his cock. Ilya would be content to stay here forever, he thinks.
“We can’t do that, puppy,” Mr. Hollander mutters softly. Oh. Ilya didn’t realize he had said that aloud. Ilya makes a small noise, discontent. “You’re ok.”
“Was I good?” Ilya doesn’t mean his voice to sound so soft.
“So good, Ilya.” Mr. Hollander continues petting through his hair. “But we can’t stay here. I can’t take you home. Marleau will come looking for you at some point. I think there’s an afterparty you’re expected at.”
“I do not want to,” he whines. Ilya cringes at how petulant he sounds. “Is not fun.”
“I have a hard time believing that Ilya Rozanov thinks an afterparty, hosted in his favor, is no fun,” Mr. Hollander teases. Ilya ducks his head. There’s a part of his brain that admits it does sound fun. There’s a larger part that doesn’t want to leave this warm afterglow, that wants to trail after Mr. Hollander, back to his hotel room. “You have to be good for me, puppy, even if you don’t want to go.”
“Okay,” Ilya agrees. It’s almost alarming how fast his mind changes; if going to this afterparty, and the inevitable club and bar after the afterparty, means he’ll be good for Mr. Hollander, he’ll do it. Mr. Hollander untangles his hand from Ilya’s hair and pulls away slowly.
“Good,” Mr. Hollander praises. He disappears around the corner of the divider, rustling through the coats. He comes back, his own suit jacket in hand. Ilya doesn’t try to hide his gaze as Mr. Hollander slips it on, collared shirt tight around his biceps and chest and shoulders– “I’ll leave the coatroom first. I have an early flight anyways and need to say goodbyes. I want you to wait here for a few minutes, then leave. You’re going to go to the bar and get yourself a glass of water, okay?”
“Yessir.”
“I don’t think I’ll see you before I go,” Mr. Hollander says carefully. He reaches a hand for Ilya, squeezes his bicep. “But we’ll be playing again before you know it.”
“Okay.” Ilya tries not to sound disappointed. “I will–will I see you then?” He’s not asking about hockey.
“Oh, puppy.” Mr. Hollander smiles, squeezing Ilya’s arm again. “Of course.” Mr. Hollander reaches out and smoothes a wrinkle on Ilya’s chest. It’s futile; Ilya’s sure that he looks a mess, shirt rumpled and hair sticking up. “Be a good boy for me, okay?”
“Yessir.” Mr. Hollander turns to leave, hesitating for a second. He whips around, pulling Ilya’s face in for one final kiss, sweet and tender. Ilya melts, chasing Mr. Hollander’s lips as they pull apart. Mr. Hollander turns the corner, dress shoes clicking out the door of the coatroom.
Ilya listens and waits. He doesn’t bother checking the time, letting the warmth of Mr. Hollander’s lips buzz through his body. If he concentrates hard enough, Ilya can still feel the hand on his bicep. He’s so warm all over, honey dripping through his body.
Ilya throws on his suit jacket before he leaves, abandoned in the front of the coatroom. He prays that it will hide some of the wrinkling, the way his suit pants don’t quite sit correctly. Another part of him, one he tries not to listen to, prays that it will be obvious to anyone who sees him, prays that someone will put the pieces together and know.
When he leaves the coatroom, no one looks at him. He tries not to be disappointed. Ilya finds his way to the bar, pushing through the crowd. The party doesn’t seem to be slowing, though he recognizes far fewer people. He approaches the bar, waves down the bartender, and gets his glass of water. Ilya drinks the entire thing, sipping slowly.
Good boy.
He knows that eventually he’ll have to find Marleau and explain where he’s been. There’s probably some lie he can throw together about a model, or maybe a cigarette break, or maybe a phone call he just had to take. Whatever. That’s later Ilya’s problem. He sets the empty glass down on the bartop and shoves his hands in his pockets.
Ilya’s hand fumbles with something; there’s a small folded napkin, one he must’ve shoved away earlier in the night. Ilya pulls it out of his pocket, leaning back to the trash can, and nearly throws it out. Black ink catches his eye, neat handwriting scrawled atop the napkin.
For when you need me, puppy. SH.
Below is Mr. Hollander’s personal number.
Ilya folds it back up and tucks it into his pocket.
