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Ilya’s phone buzzed, and the screen lit up with a notification. He sighed and shifted his bags to one hand to grab and see who the fuck was texting him so soon before a game. The screen said “Jane,” and the annoyance faded.
Jane: Attachment: 1 image
Ilya’s bags fell to his feet.
He gripped the phone in both hands, holding it to his chest as his head tipped back. Fuck.
There, on his screen, was a mirror selfie. Hollander. In a fucking Boston Raiders shirt. Hours before Montreal was supposed to play against Boston.
His phone buzzed again against his chest, less aggressively this time.
Jane: We still on for tonight?
Ilya was pretty sure nothing could stop him from seeing Hollander tonight. But he wasn’t about to admit that, even though Shane knew perfectly well what he did to Ilya.
Ilya: Good choice, Hollander. Makes you look extra fuckable.
Ilya: Yes, see you after I wipe floor with your ass.
He nodded, satisfied with himself for playing it cool. Inside, he was anything but, because nu nikhuya sebe. Hollander looked like he’d snuck into Ilya’s head, plucked out the file that was labeled “Wet Dreams,” thumbed his somehow-delicate fingers through the pages, and chosen one of Ilya’s personal favorites.
Ilya picked his bags up off the floor, adjusted himself not-so-delicately, and walked out the door.
—
The game had sucked. For Ilya at least. Hollander had played one of his best games of the season, naturally. Ilya could’ve sworn he’d had this smug air about him. A smirk on his face that turned Ilya on as much as it pissed him off. And it had pissed him off– he’d spent the whole game angry and hard.
And while he normally channeled his emotions, his frustrations, into the game— used them as fuel, let them drive him— this time they only fucked with him. He spent more time in the penalty box than usual, missed more shots on goal, and frankly, acted like a baby deer on the ice.
Boston lost to Montreal 1-3.
Ilya blamed Shane for all of it. Hollander and that fucking shirt.
Ilya went to the outer door of Shane’s building, still seething. He was surprised there wasn’t actual steam rolling off his skin in the icy Montreal air. Shane had left the door just barely propped open for him, and he yanked it more aggressively than necessary. His feet pounded up the stairs; he couldn’t wait to press Hollander face-first into the mattress and do what he couldn’t do at the arena.
He knocked at the door, lighter than how he’d stormed up the stairs; as pissed as he was, he didn’t want Shane genuinely upset with him. His knuckles had barely touched the door when it was yanked open.
Shane stood in the doorway, the yellow light from his precious lamps created a back glow around him that made him look, Ilya thought, like an angel.
An angel in a black Boston Raiders t-shirt.
“Rozanov,” Shane said it like he always did when he wanted him, like he was breathing the name out, turning it into liquid, and letting it pour into Ilya’s hands. And Ilya would’ve stood there hands cupped forever, sweetness dripping through his fingers, if it meant keeping that. He swallowed hard.
Pizdets. The things this man did to him.
“Hollander.” The word almost got stuck in his throat, and Ilya hardly even noticed when his pent up emotions about the game faded away. He reached for Shane’s waist, meaning to grip the fabric, pull him in, and kiss him stupid. But Hollander backed away, Ilya’s fingers just barely grazing the cloth, grasping only at air.
“What–”
“Come in,” Shane said with that little smile Ilya hoped was only reserved for him. A smile that was soft as usual, but this time had a touch of something extra. Confidence? Some kind of secret, maybe?
Shane turned on his heel and headed towards the bedroom, not even bothering to check if Ilya was following or not. And Ilya stopped wondering what that little something extra was.
In fact, he stopped thinking at all because on the back of Hollander’s shirt, stretched across his broad shoulders in yellow block letters, was “ROZANOV.” And under that, a very familiar number: 81.
Ilya could feel his brain short-circuiting. He would’ve hit his knees right there in the entryway, only Shane was already halfway to the bedroom. So Ilya did what anyone would do faced with Shane Hollander wearing nothing but his name and a pair of boxer briefs.
He took off his shoes (with considerably less grace than normal) and followed him (considerably faster than normal) to his room.
“Hollander. Hollander.” Ilya’s voice was vibrating in his throat, just barely forming words. He stared at Shane, who was now sitting on the bed, leaning back on his hands. “Gospodi pomilyj. Fuck, I need to see it again. Come.”
His hands found Shane’s waist, and he flipped him onto his stomach easily. Ilya put a hand on his spine, right over the top of the 81, and pressed him into the mattress until he was lying pliant. “Don’t move. Let me just—”
Shane hadn’t said anything in awhile, apparently content to watch Ilya lose his mind, but he spoke now. “You like it?”
He turned his head and looked back at Ilya with heavy eyelids. He already looked dazed, and Ilya had hardly touched him, other than to put him where he wanted him. Shane liked to be manhandled, Ilya knew, but he’d be lying if he said forcing him into the mattress had been anything other than selfish intentions.
“Like it? Fuck, Hollander. ‘Like it’ is not the right way to say what I think about this. But yes, I like it very much. And you sending me that picture before the game…”
“You were hard, weren’t you?” Shane smirked, and Ilya recognized his own words in the teasing lilt of Shane’s voice.
“Yes. Yes, whole game,” Ilya huffed, answering the question he knew came next. “I blame you for tonight.”
“Asshole,” Shane’s smile was soft, and there was no bite to his tone, as if he was already slipping under. Ilya’s cock was hard, straining in his sweats. He straddled Hollander’s thighs, grinding down against his ass— hands on Shane’s shoulders, thumbs brushing the yellow block letters of his own surname. Shane moaned at the feeling, like he was touch-starved. His hips lifted as he searched for friction against Ilya and the duvet.
“No. It is you who is asshole,” Ilya rumbled, hands dropping to hold Hollander’s hips still. “Sexting me before game? I should punish you for that, no?”
Shane’s answering moan was muffled by his face pressed into the duvet.
“But this—” Ilya mused, tracing his name so lightly that Hollander shivered. “This might make up for it. I did not realize you wore my name also. It’s a good thing probably. The league would not appreciate me fucking you against the boards.”
“Fuck, Rozanov. You fucking—”
“You like that idea, don’t you, Hollander? You’d love everyone to see me pressing you against the glass, hm? Wearing my name on your back.”
Shane squirmed again under him, trying and failing to twist enough to push him off. “Fucking— can you just fuck me, please?”
Ilya could tell that he meant it to sound harsh, demanding, but the tone of voice and the whimpered please didn’t quite have the intended effect. Gospodi, Ilya wanted him. Wanted him, he feared, in every way. In this apartment of course, but everywhere else too. In the quiet and the loud. By himself and with his friends. In Montreal, in Boston, even in Moscow.
But none of that was possible. So he shoved down the feeling beginning to bubble inside him and focused on the warm, frustrated hockey player underneath him.
He threaded his fingers through Shane’s hair and pulled his head back. Shane made a noise halfway between a moan and a growl, and Ilya smirked, grappling to regain control, because if he was honest with himself, Hollander wearing his name was about to break him.
“Do you want me to fuck you—” Ilya said slowly, drawing out his words just to make him suffer.
“Yes!” Shane started, most likely winding up to bitch about how obviously that’s what he wanted, but Ilya cut him off with a sharp tut.
“Ah—” Ilya let go of his hair to grip his jaw and shove his thumb in Shane’s mouth, effectively silencing him. “I wasn’t finished, Hollander. I was saying, do you want me to fuck you like you’re mine? Because you look like you are.”
“Fffuck, Roz—” Shane cut himself off with a moan, his words muffled and slurred around Ilya’s thumb. “M’yours, m’yours.”
Ilya inhaled, a sharp piercing breath that seemed to cut through his lungs and wrap around his heart. He wasn’t expecting…that. He’d wanted it, but he didn’t think Hollander would let him have it. Shane was so cagey about things that linked them in any way other than physical. But then again, he’d bought a Boston Raiders shirt. With Ilya’s name and jersey number. Ilya wondered how Shane would explain that one— Shane, why do you have a Boston shirt? With your arch rival’s name on it? Good fucking luck.
“Are you, now?” Ilya’s voice softened to a coo. “Yes, I think so. You look so perfect wearing my name. So good for me.” His thumb swiped gently across Shane’s bottom lip, wet with saliva.
Shane closed his eyes, reveling in the praise and soft touch. “Please fuck me.”
“Open your eyes, and ask me again.” Ilya forced himself not to flip him over and slide right in, but really, he was about to fucking snap. He wanted desperately to watch his own name pushed back and forth as he fucked Shane from behind.
Shane forced his eyes open and looked back at Ilya. He looked near tears. “Please fuck me,” and his lip trembled faintly. “I need you.”
Ilya couldn’t take it anymore. He climbed off Shane’s thighs so suddenly that he looked back, startled. He flipped Shane over and yanked his underwear down, his dick springing up immediately. He looked at Ilya with wide eyes and wet lashes.
“Listen, olenyonok,” Ilya panted, tugging off his own clothes, “here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to suck you. You will not come. Then, I’ll fuck you,” Shane started to pull the shirt off, but Ilya stopped him with a look, “you will leave that on. And then you will come on my cock, yes?”
He nodded and released the hem of the raiders shirt, closing his eyes, and motioning for Ilya to come closer, like he couldn’t bear to watch himself fall apart at Ilya’s hands. Ilya crawled onto the bed, shoving Shane’s thighs apart and making himself comfortable. When he finally got his mouth on Shane, it was like heaven personified. Probably the closest to heaven he’d get, other than sliding inside.
But for now he wanted nothing more than to worship the man sprawled out before him. Ilya gripped him tightly, just how he knew he liked it. He found a rhythm quickly, eliciting the prettiest sounds from Shane’s lips. He didn’t think he could get any harder, but leave it to Shane to do the impossible. Ilya flicked his tongue over Shane’s frenulum and ground his own hips down into the bedspread, hoping to relieve a little tension.
It didn’t work. Ilya was too worked up, especially now that Shane’s head was tossing in pleasure. His hips jumped unintentionally, forcing his cock farther down Ilya’s throat. Ilya swallowed around him, letting his throat work, and he could see a single tear streaking down Shane’s cheek.
“Roz, fuck, Rozanov, you gotta– Off, I can’t– You’re gonna make me,” Shane was panting and desperately pushing at Ilya’s head, trying so hard not to come. Yebat, he was so perfect.
“That’s it,” Ilya murmured, pulling off and squeezing Shane’s pecs, trailing his hands up and down his torso. Shane moaned as Ilya mouthed at his hip bone and grinned up at him. His head dropped back against the pillows, breathing heavy. “So good, Hollander. I can’t wait to fuck your tight ass. Hands and knees,” he smacked Shane’s upper thigh, just enough to get him moving, “hands and knees.”
Shane scrambled to obey, and Ilya felt breathless again at seeing the flashes of yellow on the black fabric. Fuck, he hoped he could last long enough. Shane was easy to get off, but Ilya wanted to make it more than worth it for him. A reward for the sexiest thing anyone had ever done for him. Yes, plenty of people wore his name and number. Fans, puck bunnies, but none of them compared to Shane.
Shane, who wore his number in the dark, not to show off to anyone, was a million times better than thousands of people wearing that number in the bright lights of the arena. Ilya grabbed the bottle of lube and a condom from the bedside table. He flicked the cap and drizzled some directly onto Shane’s crack where it ran down to his entrance. Shane gasped and lurched at the cold, but Ilya placed a hand in the middle of his spine, pressing down, “Arch, Hollander.”
Shane sank into that fucking sexy arch that drove Ilya wild, muttering variations of “please fuck me,” and Ilya spread his cheeks gently. Shane’s hole winked back at him, slick and waiting. His cock hung heavy between his legs, dripping pre-cum onto the bedspread. Ilya dragged a finger down until it circled his entrance. Shane moaned and rocked backwards, trying to get Ilya inside him. Ilya pulled his finger away for a second, and Shane threw a glare over his shoulder.
“Yes, yes, I am sorry. I have teased you very much tonight, and you have been nothing but good. Even dressed up for me. My little puck bunny, yes?”
Ilya fully expected Shane to tell him to fuck off, but Shane was too far gone to do anything more than the glare he’d already thrown Ilya’s way. This time he just nodded into the mattress murmuring, “Yes, for you. M’yours, Rozanov.”
Ilya groaned louder than he meant to at Hollander’s words and rewarded him with one finger, then two. Shane was babbling, begging for more, so Ilya crooked his fingers and pressed down, finding the spot that made Shane lurch forward.
“Fuck, Ilya– I, I need you right now, please, m’ready, I promise,” Shane’s words were slurred and running together, and Ilya wasn’t sure he heard him correctly.
“Shane,” he pressed a kiss to the small of his back. “Going to fuck you now, okay?”
Hollander nodded, and more tear tracks glistened on his cheeks as Ilya slowly pushed in. Like a switch flipped, Shane pushed up on his elbows and back, forcing Ilya into him faster than Ilya had planned. So much for giving him time to adjust. He took that as a green light to do what he’d been dying to do since that first picture Hollander had sent, and then all over again when he’d seen his own name on the man he was trying desperately not to have feelings for.
The first thrust was hard, Ilya knew that, but he also knew Shane’s body, and Shane might’ve wanted it even more than Ilya. He almost let himself wonder if Hollander had bought that shirt for a reason other than driving Ilya insane. Maybe he felt something wearing that name too? But he pushed that thought down and focused on the noises the man beneath him was making.
Ilya set a brutal pace, hands gripping Shane’s hips, his waist, his ass so hard that there might be bruises the next morning. Shane cried out repeatedly, loud “ah, ah, ahs” that only spurred Ilya on.
“Oh God, ty moy, ty moy, Shane,” Ilya panted, pushing the shirt up enough to press kisses up his spine. He knew Shane wouldn’t understand the words, but he’d said his name and that was already a risk. Even though Shane had said “Ilya” first. He thought he might break if Shane asked him to leave right now.
Luckily, Shane didn’t seem to be anywhere near that mindset right now. He was gasping and throwing himself back onto Ilya like he might actually die if Ilya were to stop touching him. With that in mind, he pulled out only as much as was necessary to flip Shane to his back. He had tears actively streaking down his cheeks now, and Ilya wanted desperately to lick them off.
He gave into his urge, doing his best to keep the rhythm steady as he leaned down, kissing Hollander’s soft lips once, twice, before licking up the shiny path on Shane’s cheek. Ilya groaned at the salty taste on his tongue, and he could’ve sworn Shane tightened around him further as his tongue darted out again and again. He pressed a kiss to his cheek for good measure before straightening back up. He grabbed Hollander’s hips, hauling him up and effectively changing the angle. He drove in deeper, panting and probably dripping sweat from exertion. Shane felt like heaven around him, better than heaven even, and Ilya hoped it felt just as good for him, too.
It must’ve, because Shane sobbed, hiccupping and squirming as Ilya hit that spot over and over again. His black hair was mussed and sticking up in various places from scrubbing his head against the bed. Ilya’s breath hitched, watching him. He was perfect, all the time, but even more so when he let go of his control. It was such a rare occurrence, and Ilya felt a longing deep within him to be the only one who got to see Shane like that. He pressed a kiss to the inside of his calf, easily reachable with his legs thrown over Ilya’s shoulders.
“That’s right, malysh. Let my dick drive you crazy.”
Shane responded beautifully to that. He was always beautifully responsive, but praise drove him wild. “Roz– gonna, can I come? Needtocomeforyou!”
The last part was rushed, like it had been punched out of him, and Ilya couldn’t believe, for the millionth time that evening, how beautiful he was. “Fuck, Hollander, come for me. Want to watch you break for me.” He shoved the t-shirt up past Shane’s pecs just in time.
Shane seized up, curling in on himself and grabbing desperately at Ilya’s biceps, yanking him down and letting out a high-pitched wail that far surpassed even the other times Ilya’d gotten him off.
“Da, that’s it, Hollander. Let me hear it,” Ilya breathed out, watching in awe as Shane’s cock twitched and spurted, landing all over his torso and seemingly going on forever. Ilya fucked him through it as he came down, until he was whimpering with overstimulation.
“I know, I know,” Ilya cooed, flipping him over one more time and tugging the t-shirt down on Shane’s back until his name and the 81 were fully visible. This was gonna do it for him, finally, finally. A few more thrusts as Shane whimpered and oh, fuck.
Ilya pulled out and yanked the condom off, stroking himself quickly, lube and spit-coated hand twisting over the head, until he came with a groan. His eyes closed briefly in pleasure as he hit his peak, but he forced them open to watch himself splatter streaks of white all over the 81 on Shane’s back. He breathed heavily, panting as his orgasm hit him harder than it had in a very long time.
He pushed his thumb through the sticky mess he’d just made, smearing the white all across the matte yellow, “Shit, Hollander.”
Shane just groaned out a “Yeah” in response and slid down flat on his stomach. Ilya followed, laying on him just long enough to press a kiss to the back of his neck before rolling off to lay beside him. Shane’s head was turned facing Ilya, and he whined until Ilya kissed him again, this time on the lips. “Mmm, that’s better,” Shane said, a faint smile curling his mouth up. His eyes were heavy still, but more with exhaustion now.
Ilya couldn’t help but smile back, “I think you killed me, Hollander. With that fucking shirt. I think I like you wearing my number.” And my name, he thought.
“Mhm, I thought you might,” Shane murmured sleepily. “Now get it off of me, it’s all sticky.”
Ilya laughed, “Okay, shower then, Hollander.” He rolled off the bed, standing and offering Shane his hand. Shane pressed his face into the mattress with a muffled groan, but pushed up on his hands a few seconds later, albeit with several mumbled curses. He sat up and stretched, taking Ilya’s hand and letting him pull him to his feet.
“Come, let’s get you clean,” Ilya led him into the en suite, never letting go of his hand. Shane walked stiffly and a little wobbly, like a baby deer, which Ilya thought matched his bambi eyes perfectly. “Must’ve been good if you walk like that,” Ilya teased.
Shane glared at him, but there was no real heat behind his eyes, “Mm, yeah, and if I’m sore at practice tomorrow, it’s your fault.”
“It was worth it though, yes?” Ilya turned on the shower and helped him pull the t-shirt over his head, dropping it into the hamper. Shane did not like clothes on the floor.
“Yes,” Shane grumbled, trying not to smile, but failing miserably.
Ilya smiled too, helping him under the hot spray, “Good. Maybe one day I will wear your number, hm?”
Shane actually blushed at that, and Ilya smirked, climbing in behind him. He wished privately that he could stay. That when the water stopped flowing, he didn’t have to leave and go back to his hotel, stay in a room with a hockey player that wasn’t his hockey player.
Not that Hollander was his, but at least for now, he could pretend.