Chapter Text
Ilya didn't think much of the Metros game against New York tonight. Shane played well, nothing out of the ordinary. Scott Hunter played shit…nothing out of the ordinary. A 5-1 loss was brutal, almost hard to watch, but it meant Ilya got to see Shane’s face light up 5 times in just one game.
Grinning, mostly to himself, like an idiot, Ilya goes to turn off the TV when he sees a fight break out on the ice. He thinks, for a moment, that the channel is doing playbacks, but the top clearly reads 3rd period, 0:00.
“Game is over,” Ilya says outloud at his screen, “Of course Scott Hunter is…” his words die out in his throat. Because yes, Hunter is involved in the fight, but the one instigating it is Shane.
Shane Hollander, yelling words that Ilya can’t make out, a dark look in his eyes, clawing at the teammates holding him back.
His pristine, doe-eyed Shane Hollander, barely contained by a mob of his own team as he tries to get his hands on Scott Hunter.
Ilya’s traitorous mouth waters.
Shane’s reactions are what Ilya likes most about him. The anger only Ilya can elicit, the moans only Ilya has heard. Seeing him so volatile, Ilya almost misses him.
He stays seated in front of his TV, waiting for Shane’s post-game interview. When it doesn’t come, he knows Shane must be truly irritated, something in that fight must have hit a nerve deep in him. Ilya wants to push him further, wants to hear the anger in his voice, and then, maybe wants to fuck it out of him.
Ilya’s due to play in Montreal in a few days, what harm is a little foreplay?
Shane picks up on the last ring. But he picks up. Ilya imagines him, angrily staring at the call flashing on his screen, considering ignoring it, but ultimately, not being able to.
Ilya smiles, “Boring Shane Hollander.”
“Speaking,” Shane replies, tone clipped.
He’s feeling snappy, clearly, playing into Ilya’s jokes. Ilya’s dick is practically straining in his pants. Jesus.
“Not so boring tonight,” Ilya says. He wonders, momentarily, if it’s too much. Admitting that he watched the game. Admitting that he watched after the game.
“Took a page out of your book, Rozanov.”
“No,” Ilya shakes his head, despite being alone in the room, “I would have actually punched him,”
“They didn’t let me,” Shane protests. He’s right, had his team not stepped in, Shane looked like he would’ve done more than just throwing a punch. Of course Hayden Pike ruined Ilya’s chances of some fun.
“Good,” Ilya says instead, laughing, “Nobody wants to see Mr. Canada try punching.”
“Just like they don’t want to see Mr. Russia try hockey,” Shane bites back.
Ilya is smiling so hard his cheeks have begun to ache.
He puts the phone on speaker so he can rub his face with both hands and snap himself out of it. He loves arguing with Shane. Loves that Shane, who isn’t even particularly contentious, becomes quick-witted and dry-humoured when he talks to Ilya. He loves that there is a side to Shane that, for the most part, only he gets to see.
Loves when he’s reminded that, even if it doesn't matter, they are compatible in every which way, not just sexually.
“Not so boring,” Ilya says finally, smiling again before he can stop himself.
“What did you call for?” There is his Shane. Not deep and angry, but annoyed. Annoyed and combative, and probably pouting.
“Just to make you angry.”
“And you succeeded,” Shane sighs, “anything else?”
“Goodbye Mr. Canada,” Ilya says, and hangs up before Shane can reply.
—
Leading up to the game against Montreal, Ilya is buzzing. He can’t wait to play Shane, can’t wait to see his annoyed expression behind his helmet, can't wait to see his irritation dissolve during sex.
For the last few days, Ilya has had the same few things replaying in his head, over and over. He’ll be washing his dishes and suddenly he’s hit with the look in Shane’s eyes during his fight with Hunter.
Or he’ll be at warmup, skating mindless laps and his brain fixates on Took a page out of your book, Rozanov.
He’s brushing his teeth and Just like they don’t want to see Mr. Russia try hockey.
Every time he’s thought about Shane since their phone call, his face has burned and his dick has twitched and he’s had to physically shake his head and pinch his skin to snap out of it.
Shane Hollander's anger is a personified sex dream.
The game starts, and Ilya is playing rough right away, within seconds, he’s throwing punches with Hayden Pike. Hardly his fault, Hayden came onto him first, but he won’t pass the opportunity to get under Shane’s skin. When Shane skates over, Ilya thinks, for a moment, that he’ll join the fight, but instead, he pulls Hayden away as the referee comes and doesn’t spare Ilya a glance.
Shane dodges him the whole game, ignoring Ilya’s every attempt to bait him into a fight.
Ilya’s time finally comes about hallways through the second period. He and Shane are battling for the puck and Ilya says, loud enough so Shane can hear, “Back to boring Shane Hollander?”
Shane shoots him a glare, ignoring the puck and instead using his body to slam Ilya into the boards. Ilya pushes back firmly, grinning from the impact and he sees the anger flash across Shane's face. They’re grabbing at each other's shoulders, necks, but Shane has yet to actually hit him. Ilya won’t. But before any of that can happen, a referee is breaking them apart.
“Finally, Hollander,” Ilya says, still smiling as they pull him away, “was starting to think you could only get it up for Hunter.”