Chapter Text
Both Montreal and Boston made the playoffs this year, to no-one’s surprise. The teams were on opposite sides of the draw, so if they made it through the first rounds, they would play each other in the final of the Eastern Conference.
Shane found himself oddly pleased by this. Boston had been their biggest rivals forever, and this year in particular every game had been closely fought. It seemed right that he and Rozanov would meet on the ice at that last round, that final chance.
Rozanov texted Shane him a gif of himself holding up the Stanley Cup, but Shane had been expecting this and he had his own Stanley Cup-winning gifs ready to send right away.
They continued texting through the first rounds of the playoffs, but much less frequently than they had been recently. They both had to focus on their own games. They both wanted this.
Boston Bears knock out Toronto Dominions in only five games! The article that Rozanov sent Shane was gushing and complimentary and Rozanov had specifically highlighted a line about himself. Rozanov, who is leading his team in goals already this season, scored at least one goal per game, and seemed to breeze past the Toronto defenders whenever he was on the ice.
Shane replied with an eye-roll and a gif of one of Rozanov’s most egregious misses. He didn’t bother sending the article that his mom had shown him. Montreal Voyageurs beat Carolina Tornadoes 4–1, captain Shane Hollander dominating, and Shane was glad they had won in five games—glad to have that tiny bit of extra breathing space, extra recovery and training time.
Montreal Voyageurs eliminate Tampa Bay Thunder in round two, after a series of hard-fought games. And they had been hard-fought, Tampa Bay not making it easy for them. In the end they had won four games to Tampa Bay’s two, and they had been closer than Shane would have liked.
Boston were against Scott Hunter and the New York Admirals in their own second round, and Shane knew that Rozanov was determined to knock them out. New York put up a fight, but the end Boston won 4-2 across a tough six games. Almost the second Rozanov was off the ice he was sending Shane a gif of his winning goal.
The media were all talking about how Montreal and Boston had a similar path to the Eastern Conference final, how well-matched the teams had been this year, how inevitable it had been that they would meet here. Shane knew it. And he knew they would be fighting for every single goal.
Boston had the home advantage to start, and they used it to win their first game. Montreal upped the pressure and won two in a row. Boston fought back to make it two wins apiece. Shane had known it would likely take all seven, and he was proved right when Montreal won a third, and then Boston made it 3–3…
And then it was the last game. Boston vs Montreal, and this seventh game was in Boston.
It was going to be a tough game—tough opponents, tough home fans, after six gruelling games to get here.
Shane stood on the ice and listened to the fans yelling and hollering. He bent over his stick and stared Rozanov down.
The other man grinned at him, eyes bright, and Shane grinned back. Whatever happened, it was going to be a good game.
Shane won the face-off.
***
Shane’s hotel room was quiet, and calm, and exactly what he needed, with the sting of disappointment curling through him.
He was freshly showered, hair damp and tickling the back of his neck. He’d finally shaved his pathetic attempt at a playoff beard, wispy tufts that weren’t even worthy of the name, and he ran his hand over his smooth skin, glad it was gone.
He was wearing his sleep clothes, shorts and an old Voyageurs t-shirt, and he was more than ready for bed.
There were people who called him boring, people who said that Shane Hollander was no fun. He thought about his teammates, no doubt drowning their sorrows at a club right now, drunk and sweaty and surrounded by a heaving press of people.
He folded down the perfectly neat top sheet of the hotel room bed, and was glad that he wasn’t fun.
It had been a hard series of games, and he couldn’t deny that he was crushed to have lost this one. He was more than ready to sleep, to rest and recover and move past this.
He was just about to climb under the covers when there was a knock at the door.
Shane frowned. His teammates wouldn’t be back for hours yet. No-one else he knew was here in this hotel in Boston.
He moved to open the door.
And there was Ilya Rozanov.
“Hollander,” Rozanov said, simply, and Shane blinked at him
“Rozanov?” he said, startled.
“Hello,” Rozanov said, with a smile. Shane stared at him. Of all the people to show up at his door, he would never have guessed Ilya Rozanov. Rozanov should be out with his team. Rozanov always went out after his games.
Shane had many questions. He started with what seemed the most important.
“How did you find my hotel room?”
“I asked Hayden Pike,” Rozanov answered, sounding distracted.
Shane found that this gave him even more questions, but he shook off the bizarreness of the moment to say something he had wanted to say all evening. It had felt wrong to text it to Rozanov, something about this moment that felt more important than just some hastily typed words.
“Congratulations on the win today,” Shane said, and he meant it.
Even just last year, if Boston and Rozanov had won the final round of the playoffs, and made it to the Stanley Cup finals by beating Montreal, Shane wouldn’t have even been able to think the word congratulations, never mind say it and mean it.
But things had changed.
He and Rozanov were friends now, as strange as that was. And while Shane was devastated to have lost, he was glad that of all the people who could have beaten him, it was Rozanov.
It felt like a worthy loss. And he knew how much it meant to Rozanov.
But that still didn’t explain why the other man was here.
Shane looked at him.
He was still wearing his post-game suit, a dark grey that made his eyes look very bright. His hair was curling perfectly. He looked his usual handsome self, and Shane pushed aside the usual pang he felt.
Except… maybe Rozanov didn’t look like his usual self. His hands were in fists at his side, he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and his shoulders were tense.
“Are you alright?” Shane said, carefully.
Rozanov nodded brusquely but didn’t speak.
“Rozanov… why are you here?”
“I do not…” Rozanov cleared his throat. “Can I come in?”
Shane stepped back with a nod, still confused, and Rozanov moved inside. The door closing behind him was very loud in the quiet.
The sight of Rozanov standing in Shane’s room was so incongruous that it was jarring. The contrast of Shane in his sleep clothes and his feet bare on the carpet, and Rozanov still fully dressed in his formalwear and his dress shoes.
Shane’s mind jumped back to the other time that Rozanov had been in his hotel room.
Rozanov drunk, sad, sprawled on Shane’s bed, telling him about his parents and on the brink of a confession.
Everything had changed since then.
“Is everything okay?” Shane asked again. “Aren’t your team out somewhere partying?”
Rozanov nodded, a quick jerk of his head. “Was at club,” he said. He sounded strange, but he didn’t seem drunk this time. “Lots of girls, drink. A good time.”
Shane nodded, unsure of where Rozanov was going with this.
“Always I am with women. Sexy women, fun, but I have this problem.”
Rozanov’s stance was rigid. It looked like he was physically stopping himself from pacing back and forth.
“A problem?” Shane asked, carefully.
“Yes. Problem is, even though there are all of these women, I cannot stop thinking about this short, annoying hockey player with freckles and terrible backhand.”
Shane froze.
“No matter what I do, I cannot get him out of my head. It is very inconvenient.”
Shane had no idea what he was thinking. His own head was totally empty. He found himself staring at one particular curl of Rozanov’s hair.
“So are you—I mean, what—I mean, are you—” Shane tried, stupidly, his mouth feeling clumsy around the words of his own first language.
Rozanov seemed to understand immediately what he was asking.
“I am bisexual,” he said, dismissive, as if it wasn’t the most important thing Shane had ever heard him say, as if there weren’t so few out queer players in the NHL that Shane could count them on one hand.
“And… you like me?” Shane said. The whole thing still seemed like an elaborate prank, and the only thing that stopped him from panicking was the way the stillness on Rozanov’s face seemed to bely his own inner panic.
“Yes,” Rozanov said, and Shane’s heart leaped. “Unfortunately,” Rozanov continued, and then he smirked, so much like his usual self that Shane felt his heart racing.
“I…” Shane didn’t know what to say. The room could be on fire and he wouldn’t know. All he could see was Rozanov’s hazel eyes, bright and looking straight at him.
“All those flirty gifs and now you are quiet,” Rozanov said, and for the first time Shane heard the vulnerable note in his voice. Rozanov was putting himself on the line here, trusting Shane with everything.
Offering Shane everything he had realised that he wanted these last few months.
He had spent all this time not knowing what he wanted. Now he knew that he wanted Rozanov. And by some ridiculous, fantastical stroke of luck, Rozanov wanted him back.
“Rozanov,” he said, just to say it, nothing else in his mind, and then he took a step forward.
Rozanov stayed where he was. He had done everything else. Shane understood that he would have to make this next step, physically and emotionally.
He could be brave for this.
He took another step forward. Rozanov was very close now. Shane had only ever seen his eyes this close when they had been facing off on the ice, and he had never noticed the flecks of green amongst the hazel. They were beautiful, like a piece of sea-glass on a beach in the sun.
“Ilya,” he breathed, the syllables curling over his tongue, and at the use of his first name Rozanov—Ilya—twitched, and let out a hitching breath. Shane reached out a shaking hand to push that one rogue curl of hair back behind Ilya’s ear, and then brought his hand down to slide his fingers into Ilya’s play-off beard.
Shane had been admiring it from afar for the whole of the play-offs. It was dark, thick, framing Ilya’s plush lips, and he had been jealous of it on the ice, hyperaware of his own feeble efforts to grow one. Now he just wanted to feel Ilya’s against his skin.
“Shane,” Ilya said, and Shane marvelled at how good his name sounded in Ilya’s deep voice, as if he was whispering it just for Shane and he was, this moment was just for them.
They stood there for one frozen moment, their only point of contact Shane’s hand on Ilya’s face, and then they were both moving.
They crashed into each other with the force of months of repressed tension. Ilya’s mouth was hot and lush and insistent, and Shane kissed back with the same intensity, mouth opening for Ilya. Shane moaned into it, and Ilya deepened the kiss, and Shane could already feel the heat curling through his body.
Ilya’s hands were like brands on Shane’s hips through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and Shane brought his other hand up to link them behind Ilya’s neck and pull him closer.
The inches that Ilya had over Shane had never felt like a lot, but Shane was tipping his head up into the kiss and he loved it, loved feeling the strength and solidity of the man in front of him.
“Shane,” Ilya hissed, and already Shane knew he would never get sick of his name said in that voice, in that tone. “I want—”
Shane bit at his lip and Ilya moaned, broken and gorgeous, and Shane was well on his way to hard now, with just Ilya’s lips on his and Ilya’s beard against his skin and the sound of Ilya’s voice.
Ilya pulled at his hips, pulling him closer, pulling their bodies flush, and oh, that was even better, the heat of Ilya against him and the pressure of his thigh against Shane’s dick, and Shane could feel Ilya’s erection pressing against him and a flush of anticipation flooded through him.
“I want—” Ilya tried again, but this time he cut himself off by kissing Shane again as if he couldn’t help it, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers in his hair.
Shane wanted so much he didn’t know where to start. But then he shifted his head to kiss Ilya even deeper and he felt the stretch in his neck and he realised that actually he did know where to start, so he didn’t injure himself before they’d even started.
“Bed,” he suggested, and he was trying to be cool with it but his voice was shot to hell.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya swore.
Shane liked Ilya calling him Shane. But there was something in that Hollander, in a voice that was laced with arousal and heat, that worked for him too. So different from how it was on the ice.
Shane started shoving Ilya towards the bed, so impatient that Ilya laughed and pushed him to stop before they got very far.
“Wait, wait,” he said, and Shane tensed, ready to be rejected, but Ilya was just bending down to untie his shoes. He took his socks off while he was down there, pulled off his tie as he stood up, and then unbuckled his suit pants and stepped out of them before Shane could react.
“Oh,” he said, stupidly, because suddenly it was real, and he could see the bulge of Rozanov’s dick through his boxers and he wanted to touch him, wanted to get his mouth on him.
“Shirt too,” he managed to say, and Ilya grinned but obeyed him, unbuttoning the shirt and dropping it to the floor too.
Shane just looked at him. The breadth of his shoulders, the muscle there, the hard lines of his abs, the gold chain resting on his chest, and Shane had never wanted anything so badly before as he right now wanted to suck Ilya’s cock.
And, well. He could.
So he took a step closer, kissed Ilya once, a hard bruising kiss, and then he folded to his knees in front of him.
Ilya’s reaction was gratifying. He swore first in Russian, then in English, and when Shane dragged his eyes away from Ilya’s crotch to look up he saw Ilya staring down at him with hunger in his eyes.
“Shane,” Ilya breathed, like a prayer, and Shane could hardly believe that he was here, that Ilya was looking at him like that.
Shane pressed his mouth against Ilya’s crotch, the hardness of his dick through the fabric of his boxers, and he could feel the heat of him and it was driving him wild. He pressed a series of loose, open-mouthed kisses to Ilya’s clothed dick and it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t nearly enough, Shane was practically rubbing his face against Ilya but he needed more.
He’d never felt hungry like this for it, so turned on he could feel it in every cell of his body. He pulled Ilya’s boxers down, letting them fall around his ankles, and watched his cock spring out, hard and wet at the tip just from Shane.
Shane had done this once before and even scared out of his mind he had loved it, loved the weight of the cock in his mouth, loved the taste, loved the way he felt so powerful.
And now was no different. This was better, even, because it was Ilya gasping and moaning and twitching in his mouth, running a hand through his hair and down to touch his mouth around Ilya’s dick, murmuring words of admiration and lust in English and phrases that Shane didn’t understand in Russian.
Shane was hard enough to drill nails without having even been touched but he didn’t care, single-mindedly focused on this, on making Ilya feel good as best he could.
“Ah, Shane, Shane,” Ilya gasped, and then he was pulling out, pulling Shane up with a hand on his bicep to kiss him again, ravenous.
“Was that good?” Shane managed, and he hated himself for asking it, but Ilya pulled back enough to look him in the eyes.
“Too good,” Ilya said, and Shane knew that he meant it. “Too much, too good,” he said, and Shane felt the arousal and pride curl through him in equal measures, as Ilya captured his mouth again, hands pushing under Shane’s t-shirt to touch the skin there.
“Bed,” Ilya demanded, a breathless repeat of Shane’s request from so long ago, and this time they made it there, Shane shedding all his clothes until Ilya was pushing him down into the mattress, covering Shane’s body with his, strong and muscled and burning hot, and kissing him hard and deep.
Their cocks moved together, Shane leaking and desperate even though he hadn’t even been touched yet, and Shane wanted everything with this man.
He lost time in the kiss, syrupy and hot, the pleasure of their cocks moving together and Ilya’s body against his and Ilya’s mouth, always his mouth, and it was so good and Shane needed more.
“Ilya,” Shane moaned into the kiss and Ilya bit at his lip, a sting of pain that sparked through him. “Ilya, please.”
He didn’t even know what he was asking for, but it seemed like Ilya knew.
He didn’t break the kiss, but he shifted his weight off of Shane, going down on one elbow beside him. He ran one hand down Shane’s chest, across his stomach, to stroke lazily at his cock, and Shane gasped at the touch, at Ilya’s big hand curling around him. And then Ilya’s hand was moving further down, fingers trailing.
He paused there, forehead against Shane’s, fingers resting on Shane’s ass, a silent question. And then when Shane didn’t move, sudden panic gripping him, Ilya asked the question aloud.
“Shane, can I fuck you?” he whispered, voice thick and raw and his lips brushing Shane’s ear, and Shane let out a shuddering breath.
“I don’t—” Shane started, and then cut himself off, but Ilya had understood enough, and this time he kissed Shane slow.
“You have never?”
“No,” Shane said quietly, and he wasn’t embarrassed. Ilya’s fingers were gentle and his face was understanding beneath the obvious need there.
“You want?”
“I want,” Shane said, honest and brave.
Ilya grinned at him, sheer happiness in his eyes.
“It will be good,” he promised, and he kissed Shane again, lush and lovely and so so careful. Shane believed him. He knew that Ilya would be patient. Knew that Ilya would make it good.
Ilya opened him up agonisingly slowly, one gentle finger at a time. He had done this before to himself, but it was different with someone else.
It was strange and full and incredible, Ilya’s mouth teasing Shane’s cock as he used his fingers with unerring accuracy to find Shane’s prostate. It felt like no time at all before Shane was ready, so ready, and he wasn’t nervous any more.
Ilya pulled his fingers free and Shane winced at the odd emptiness, but Ilya kissed him again and he gasped into it. He lost himself in that kiss, opening his mouth for Ilya, head tipping back onto the pillows.
“Ready?” Ilya breathed, kissing messily across Shane’s jaw, the roughness of his beard driving Shane wild, and he was ready, and he managed to say as much. Ilya smiled at him and then moved, lifting himself up over Shane, and suddenly Shane was unsure all over again.
“Should I… turn over?” he asked, hating the uncertainty in his voice, but Ilya pulled back to look at him and his smile was warm and lovely.
“I want to see you,” he said, eyes full of heat and something more, and all Shane could do was kiss him again.
The first press of Ilya’s cock into him was almost too much. The stretch, the all-consuming pressure, and when he bottomed out there was a moment of breathlessness.
Shane could feel his heart racing, could feel his toes curling, could feel Ilya’s hands on his thighs holding his legs up, and it was indescribable.
“Ilya,” he gasped. “Ilya.” There was nothing else he could say, in this moment of stillness and fullness, and Ilya bent to kiss him and it was perfect.
And then Ilya started moving, and that was even better. He started slowly, pulling almost fully out before pressing in again, and Shane kissed him back as best as he could through his gasps.
“Ilya, more, please,” Shane moaned, Ilya’s breath hot against his jaw. Ilya thrust a few more times, that same achingly slow movement, and Shane was about to start begging when Ilya finally, finally sped up. Shane almost screamed.
Every single thrust was hitting his prostate, and his own cock was pressed between their stomachs and the friction of it was delicious. Ilya’s hands were so tight on his thighs and Shane hoped suddenly and wildly that Ilya would leave marks, that Shane would be able to press his fingers into bruises tomorrow and know that Ilya had left them there.
He wasn’t going to last long. It was all so much, and Ilya was here, and when he managed to gasp out garbled words to that effect Ilya groaned.
“Come for me, Shane,” he said, guttural and hot, and it only took a few more thrusts before Shane was coming, all over their stomachs, with a shout and the feeling of it through his whole body.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya moaned, and he kissed him messily, his thrusts becoming uncoordinated until he made a noise low in his throat and stilled, gasping against Shane’s mouth.
There was a moment of quiet, of stillness, Ilya braced over him, both of them breathing heavily, before Shane laughed.
He couldn’t help it. Heat was still fizzing in his veins, the aftershocks of his orgasm sending little shivers through him, and he could feel the uniquely bizarre sensation of Ilya softening inside him, and he couldn’t believe that any of this had happened.
He’d had sex with a man. He’d had sex with Ilya Rozanov. And it had been incredible.
“Ah, is funny now, huh?” Ilya said, a mock-disgruntled look on his face, as he pulled out and flopped to the bed beside Shane.
Shane winced at the emptiness, shifted, felt the ache in muscles he’d never used like that before.
“It was good,” he said, grinning across at Ilya, and then before he could second-guess himself he reached for Ilya’s hand.
Ilya’s fingers closed around his without a moment’s thought, comforting and warm, and Ilya smiled back at him, content and sleepy-looking.
“Are we—” Shane started, and then cut himself off. But Ilya seemed to know what he wanted to ask.
“I would like to do this again,” Ilya said, and Shane beamed at him. He had never felt so good. “I would like to—” And then it was his turn to cut himself off, and for Shane to complete the thought.
“Date me?”
Ilya shrugged, easy and liquid, but Shane could see the seriousness in the way his brow had furrowed slightly.
“It would not be easy,” he said.
Shane laughed. “Nothing has been.”
Ilya just looked at him, for a long steady moment. He shifted forward to press an achingly tender kiss to Shane’s forehead, and then he stayed close, lips brushing Shane’s skin.
“Yes, I would like to date you, Shane Hollander,” Ilya said, and it was possibly the best thing that Shane had ever heard.
“Good,” he said, and he was sure he was beaming, but Ilya was smiling back at him, eyes bright and crinkled, and he was beautiful and he liked Shane and they were dating now, and nothing else mattered.
Shane kissed him again, giddy with it. Hard to believe that earlier this evening he had been devastated to be knocked out of the running for the Stanley Cup, and now he was here, with Ilya, and he couldn’t be happier.
They fell asleep holding hands.