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Shane is practically giddy as he steps out onto the ice of Boston’s TD Garden for the first face-off of the game. Even the booing of the crowd as he cuts across the ice can’t bring him down. He’s not just ready for the face-off, he has a plan.
It had taken time to prepare for, and a few days of uncomfortable practice even after he’d worked up the nerve to make the initial purchase, but Shane was absolutely certain that the pay off would be worth it.
“Hollander.” Ilya drawled in greeting as he came to a clean stop at the face-off circle. The referee was still making his way over, after consulting with another striped official, and Shane’s giddiness threatened to make itself known as he bit back a grin.
“Rozanov.” he replied politely, before asking, “What’s your favorite color again?”
His eyes narrowed as they tried to suss out what Shane was after; since Ilya likely knew that Shane knew his favorite color was blue, had been since they were both seventeen years old.
“Blue. Why? Is color you are feeling now, knowing you will lose face-off?” he chirps, and Shane fights to keep a straight face.
“Just curious. Mine’s red tonight.” he lies smoothly. Shane’s actual favorite color is a certain stormy gray-blue. “That’s the color of lace Jane’s wearing tonight for a special someone.”
Shane can see the exact moment that Ilya translates what he’s said, but it’s not until he’s swiped the puck away with ease and is taking off down the ice that he grins so wide his mouth guard nearly slips out.
It takes a full three seconds before he hears Ilya recoup enough to chase after him.
🎀
Ilya’s eyes are a certain kind of wild that make Shane’s pulse kick into high gear when they meet at the next face-off. He’s obviously trying to hide how Shane’s words have affected him, but it’s showing in the way he plays; Ilya’s concentration is clearly not entirely on the game.
Shane would feel bad about that, if it weren’t so nice to finally have the upper hand in getting under Ilya’s skin.
“Jane must have big plans for this evening then.” Ilya says as he levels himself into position. “Consolation prize for loser boyfriend?”
The referee is fiddling with his new earpiece, buying Shane a moment to reply.
“Might be a consolation prize for somebody.” Shane shrugs. “Turns out lace is pretty breathable. Fits underneath Jane’s work uniform.”
Ilya’s eyes go wide, hurriedly darting up and down Shane’s body as if, if he just looks hard enough, he’d be able to see right through Shane’s clothes to the lace clinging to his skin beneath.
Shane wins the face-off, and it doesn’t even matter that he’s already sweat through the pair of red lace briefs he’s wearing; the look on Ilya’s face was so worth it.
🎀
Despite his best efforts to keep Ilya distracted, the rest of the Boston players have been on point tonight; Montreal needs to score off of this final face-off, or Shane’s experiment really will be his only prize for the night.
“They came in a multi-pack.” he huffs out, back on the ice and bent low over his stick for their final showdown. He’s winded from the number of times Ilya’s managed to slam him into the boards tonight.
“How many pairs?” Ilya grits out, color high on his cheeks and eyes intense as they stare across at Shane.
It’s hard to make his face twist into a look of fake disappointment, but the payoff should be more than worth it. “Only a couple pairs left. Some things just don’t rinse out, y’know?”
Ilya makes a choked off sound, like a whine, and this time Shane can’t hold back a laugh of delight as he once again makes off with the puck.
🎀
Boston still manages to squeak out a win, but this ends up working out in Shane’s favor too; he makes it to Ilya’s place before the winning team captain has even managed to escape the media’s clutches.
There’s nothing like winning on home ice though, so Shane estimates Ilya’s going to do at least a little bit of celebrating with his team before heading home.
He’s proven wrong a short while later, stepping out of Ilya’s fancy waterfall shower since there's no way he could shower at the rink in what he’d been wearing. He’s in a new pair of lace boy shorts now, blue this time because they really had come in multiple colors, even if the custom sizing of them meant there was no way he could’ve bought them in a multi-pack.
Shane had deliberately left the recently hand washed red pair hanging on the towel rack for Ilya to discover later though.
Pulling pilfered sweatpants on over the blue lace, Shane is hunting for a shirt to borrow too when the door downstairs slams shut and the sound of running feet make their way up the stairs towards the bedroom.
Shane’s fighting back a smile when Ilya, wild eyed and hair still damp from his own post-game shower, darts across the room and pins him against the dresser by his hips.
“Not celebrating with the boys tonight?” Shane asks, teasing and leaning back when Ilya leans in for a kiss, testing the man's already thin patience.
“Just one boy, actually.” Ilya huffs. “One very naughty boy, who is stealing my clothes and driving me crazy on ice.”
“Driving you crazy?” Shane asks, “That doesn’t sound very boring.”
“Shane.” Ilya replies, his voice a drawn out whine. “Please, lyubimyy, I want-”
Shane cuts him off with a kiss, one that’s deliberately light and soft; Ilya doesn’t allow it to stay that way for long though, tongue immediately licking into his mouth and groaning low when Shane lets him in.
Just to keep Ilya waiting for that much longer, Shane steals the hands at his waist up, nudging at his wrists until Ilya can get a handful of the thick muscle on Shane’s chest. If he’s upped his workout routine to specifically give Ilya more to grab when he’s like this, that’s between him and his physical trainer; right now, Shane is the one reaping the benefit.
Ilya hardly acts like he’s being circumvented, kneading at Shane’s chest with one hand while the other thumbs a nipple, sparking pleasure and playing Shane’s body like the finely tuned instrument it is.
With Ilya’s hands thoroughly distracted, Shane puts his own to use; giving a lurid suck at Ilya’s tongue still plundering his mouth, Shane makes quick work of his belt and jeans. Slipping one palm inside to press against Ilya’s straining length, Shane lets out a groan of his own at how hard Ilya is for him already.
It still surprises him, sometimes, that he can have this kind of effect on Ilya Rozanov of all people.
“You make me like this.” Ilya pants, breaking away from Shane’s mouth and gasping for air. “Spent the whole game, pinched in cup, because of this filthy mouth-”
Despite calling it filthy, Ilya has no compunctions against sliding his tongue back inside, flicking teasing strokes against the roof of Shane’s mouth and making his knees go weak in response.
He’s distracted enough by the kiss that Shane doesn’t keep track of where Ilya’s hands end up until his fingertips tease beneath the waistband of Shane’s sweats and a full body shudder rolls through Ilya at the first touch of the lace.
Pulling off of Shane’s mouth to press wet, open mouthed kisses to his neck, Ilya slips his hands inside the sweatpants, palms cupping against Shane’s ass cheeks and pressing down hard; it pulls his hips flush to Ilya’s own, and the lace tickles at the skin of his backside.
“You will be death of me.” Ilya swears, kneading at Shane’s ass and pulling his cheeks apart; probably testing the feel of stretch and give in the lace.
Licking his lips and trying to think through the fog of arousal that always takes over his mind whenever Ilya gets his hands on him like this, Shane rolls his head back to give Ilya better access to his sensitive neck.
“Wanna see?” he murmurs to the ceiling, eyes slipping closed in pleasure as Ilya takes the bait and sinks his teeth into the column of Shane’s throat, biting over his Adam’s apple. He has to fight back a conditioned response of spreading his legs wider for Ilya’s pleasure; he’s barely standing on his own as it is, propped up between Ilya’s body and the dresser behind him.
“Yes.” Ilya growls, wrenching his hands free of the sweats before gripping Shane’s thighs and lifting him off of the floor.
“Ilya!” Shane yelps, protests falling on deaf ears as Ilya turns and walks them the few short steps to the bed before bodily flinging Shane down onto the mattress. There’s a faint tearing sound as Ilya proceeds to yank the offending sweats off of Shane’s body, and then he’s just laying there, exposed, as Ilya soaks in the sight of him.
His pupils are so wide that the sliver of stormy gray-blue is barely visible in the dim lighting of Ilya’s bedroom. Pants sagging halfway down his thighs from where Shane had been palming him through the open zip, Ilya is still mostly dressed when he falls onto the bed and crawls his way up Shane’s body, pressing kisses into his skin along the way.
“So pretty for me.” he mutters into Shane’s kneecap, sucking at the thin skin there before nipping his teeth into the meat of Shane’s thigh.
“You like them?” he gasps, Ilya’s hands pressing at the back of his thighs to spread them obscenely wide.
Propping himself up on one elbow for a better look and burying his free hand in Ilya’s unruly curls, Shane can clearly identify the expression on his boyfriend's face; hunger.
“Da. Yes. Very much.”
When Ilya buries his face into the span of lace stretched taut over Shane’s hips, a deep blue that matches his Metros jersey almost exactly, Shane grins, feeling almost drunk with power.
Losing the game tonight was a mistake he’ll work extra hard to bring his team back from.
Tomorrow. Later.
For now though, tonight…
This is what victory feels like.