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“You fucking pussy,” Shane shouted while trying to get rid of the arms around him. He didn’t know where his gloves were or when he took them off. All he knew was that he wanted to punch Scott Hunter’s yelling face and wipe that stupid grin off it.
“Go home,” he continued to shout. Hunter was shouting back, but Shane couldn’t hear with the racing blood in his ears and the screaming fans. They were putting on a show, Shane was sure. He wasn’t usually the one who started a fight, especially not ever in the home crowd. He worried distantly that his mother would see him saying pussy in front of the big cameras, but he would say his sorries if it ever came up. Later.
“Go home.” He shook his head, not finding anything better to say. Hunter and his Admirals should go home and cry for their brutal lost, before saying shit and messing with Shane.
“You’re 45 years old!” Shane shouted and struggled more and this time clearly heard Hunter’s response.
“Go fuck yourself!” Hunter yelled with a sneer, his handsome young face twisted with an ugly frown. He wasn’t really that older than Shane, only three years apart. Shane knew that and he knew Hunter knew.
He truly started to sound like fucking Rozanov, goddamn it.
Shane felt blood rushing to his head with renewed anger and shame. Hunter wasn’t wrong. He might have been influenced by Rozanov’s vocabulary and chirping style. Shane tried to give another half hearted shove to his teammates crowding around him. He wasn’t so sure anymore what he would do if he get to Hunter. Punch the guy? For what? He felt the fight drained away with the realization.
Hayden appeared in front of him, next to the referee, successfully blocking Hunter’s view.
“Come on, man, what’s gotten into you?” His hands up on air in a placating manner.
“Fuck!” Shane stopped struggling and let his teammates get him away from Hunter, off the ice.
“Yeah, fuck,” Hayden wholeheartedly agreed without knowing nothing about anything, skating behind Shane as if Shane would break away and launch himself at Hunter. The anger slipped away, replaced by nothing but shame and panic.
What did Hunter actually mean by that comment? He couldn’t have known what was going on with Rozanov and him. Not that there was much going on, Shane reasoned. Just meeting in hotel rooms and fooling around time to time. And maybe some cuddling, forehead kissing as well. Also, the last time they had been together, they met at Shane’s home in Montreal. So, maybe they didn’t just fuck in hotel rooms anymore. That didn’t mean there was anything to be hinted at between them. Apart from mind-blowing sex that could end their career, Shane’s treacherous mind happily corrected.
He shook himself out of reverie. He couldn’t afford to think about Rozanov, especially not here, not now after Hunter’s ominous chirping and dozens of cameras focused on him.
Was it just chirping, comparing two players who were bitter rivals, or was there something else?
“What did Hunter say?” Hayden asked as they get out of their gears in the locker room. There was no way Shane would tell anyone about what Hunter said.
“Just being butthurt after that lost.” Shane shrugged as casually as possible.
“Fuck him, Captain.” J.J. clapped a hand to his back, looking far too amused about his captain throwing hands. “Do you want me to go out and punch him for you?”
That pulled a chuckle from Shane even if it was just a joke. Probably. “Don’t bother,” he bumped his fist to his teammate’s shoulder, before walking toward the showers.
Hayden hummed, not buying Shane’s nonchalance, but didn’t push it. Shane really liked Hayden for that. He wished the reporters were like Hayden as he rinse off the sweat of the game and relax under the hot water. He tried his best to not overanalyze what Hunter meant by that.
After mind numbingly repeating the same dull answers over and over again — yes, sometimes things got heated. Yes, they won and the others lost. No, he wouldn’t comment on the fight. Maybe, they should talk about the 5 goals his team had scored — and giving a weak excuse of wanting to center himself to get himself out of a celebratory night out with his team after that strong win, Shane trudged back to his apartment in his navy suit, exhausted and ready to be alone.
He was relaxing in front of the TV when Rozanov finally called. Shane was half hoping, half dreading to see his phone light up with the oncoming call. He knew he shouldn’t answer, he knew he was gonna get mocked at.
His ear got filled with Rozanov’s laughter, after he picked up his phone on the forth ring. Nobody would suggest Shane was a weak man, but not many people knew this side of him.
“What the hell was that,” Rozanov breathed out between peel of laughter. Shane couldn’t remember hearing him laughing like this before — loud and uncontrollable.
“Haha,” he said in a monotone voice, trying to smother his own grin.
“Fuuuck, Hollander, I didn’t know you had it in you.” Rozanov finally restraining his laugh.
“Fuck off.”
“No, no. This is a first, yes? Good boy Shane Hollander taking his gloves off!”
Shane felt heat creeping up his face. He wasn’t a good boy. “Fuck. Off. It’s normal. Everybody gets into fights on ice.”
“Not normal! Boring, old man Scott Hunter and boring Shane Hollander fighting on the ice. What a day!”
Shane could easily hung up the phone and stop hearing this godawful mocking. “I am not boring, am I now.” Shane grumbled back. He could almost see Rozanov’s teasing smile. Was he at home, on the couch like Shane? Had he been watching his game? God, there must be hundreds of highlights of him and Hunter’s fight. He should have called his parents before leaving the stadium.
“No, no. Still boring, Hollander! You didn’t even land a single punch on the guy!”
“You’re an asshole,” Shane said without heat and rolled his eyes even if no one could see. Shane could here Rozanov’s breathing in and out through the speaker. He smushed the phone to his ear more as he turned the TV volume down.
After a moment silence later Rozanov asked in much softer voice. “What did he say that he got you so heated?”
“Nothing,” Shane replied automatically. He didn’t want Rozanov to know it was about him, that, even though nobody uttered his name, Shane lashed out so wildly without thinking much of the consequences.
“Hmm?” Rozanov prompted. He really couldn’t know that a single remark from Hunter—about Shane sounding like Rozanov—had gotten under his skin.
“What are your wearing?” Shane blurted out and immediately felt himself flush. What the hell.
“What am I— Ohhh! You keep surprising me today.” Shane could hear Rozanov’s snickering.
“I am gonna hang up.”
“No, no, wait. Wearing gray sweatpants.”
“You’re not wearing anything on top?” Shane couldn’t help but ask, after hearing nothing but rustling noises on the other side.
“Nope,” Rozanov said, with a little pop at the end. “Not anymore. What do you wear?” Shane could imagine his handsome face, undoubtedly with a huge smirk.
“Uhh, my pajamas, I guess.”
“What are you, twelve.”
“Asshole!”
“Okay, okay, what color? Does it have buttons?”
Shane’s ruffled nerves smoothed instantly.
“Yes, it does.” God, why wasn’t he hanging the phone up? “It’s blue.”
“Must be buttoned to your throat, hmm? Only one button open. Like a good boy, right, Hollander?”
Blood rushed towards south, leaving him dizzy. “Yeah,” Shane said in a weak voice. His shirt was truly buttoned all the way up with just one button left undone.
“Would you like to open them up for me?” Rozanov said in a lower voice. There must be something hypnotic about his voice that made Shane so eager to obey. There couldn’t be any other explanation for why he was in such a hurry to get his shirt open.
“Yes.” He said needlessly. Rozanov must have picked up on what he was doing, with all that heavy breathing and the soft rustle of fabric. He guessed, they were really doing it.
“Are they hard?”
“What?”
“Your nipples? Are they hard?”
Shane brushed his free hand over his nipples softly and couldn’t help a breathless sigh escape. “Yeah, they are.”
“Are you cold?”
“No. No, I feel hot.” Shane pinched one of the hard peak to Rozanov’s low chuckle. “Do you? Feel hot, I mean.”
“Yes. I feel hot too.” Rozanov said it in the same low, rough voice, though the mirth was still clear in it. Shane didn’t like that. He wanted Rozanov to lose it a little, not be able to tease him anymore, strained and close to the edge like Shane was right now.
Before he could find the right words to get what he wanted, Rozanov spoke first. “What was the color?”
Confused, Shane asked. “Blue?”
“No. Your little toy?”
He blushed furiously once again and glad for the first time Rozanov couldn’t see his face. Fuck. Why had he admitted having that thing back at home?
“Come on, Hollander. I want to know. Is it close by? Did you forget what color? Of course, after having me, it wouldn’t satisfy.”
“Oh, shut up. It’s purple. Happy now?”
A grunt came from the other side that made Shane’s skin ablaze. His hand moved lower, cupping his erection through his pants to take the edge off.
“Fuck, Hollander. Is it big?”
“Not really.” Shane squirmed on the coach. His dick twitching in the confines of his briefs.
“No?” Rozanov asked again, breathless and close to a groan.
“Not big as you.” Shane murmured.
“Fuck, you are killing me. Is it close? Can you get it?”
Shane blinked and he was on his bed, naked, holding his phone in one hand and the purple dildo in the other. Waiting for instructions.
“Put me on speaker. And touch your balls.”
Well, that was direct. Shane caressed his balls, not giving attention to his dick even if he was dying for one single stroke.
“Fuck,” he breathed out. “Do you—,” he licked his dry lips, “are you touching yourself too?”
“Yes. How close are you?”
Shane was embarrassingly close to coming. “Close.”
“Don’t. You won’t before I say so.”
Shane huffed a laugh.
“Did you understand, Hollander? If you get close, you will take your hands away. Say yes.”
“Fuck, okay, I won’t. Fuck. Rozanov.”
“Good boy,” Rozanov said approvingly that made Shane getting much more closer to the edge.
“One hand on your pretty nipple and move the other lower.”
“Pretty?” The question tumble out Shane’s lips without his permission.
“Yes. I love them. They are so very pretty.”
“Yeah?” Shane pinched hard as his other hand slowly grazed the skin of his taint.
“I love to touch them, kiss them, suck and bite them. They fill my hand so well. My mouth, Hollander. Just so bitable, yes?”
Shane left the abuse nipple to move to the other one.
“I love them. Those nipples. So hard every time I get close to. Hard little things. So pretty. I bet you could come only with playing with your nipples and my cock in your mouth. I bet your chest would look much prettier with my cum on it.” His voice gravely and low and so sinful.
Shane whimpered. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Rozanov, let me touch.” Shane’s dick bobbed in front of him, red and wet. He was so closed to humping the air.
“Use your words.”
“Let me touch my dick, I want to come,” Shane whined, knowing the embarrassment would settle in an hour. But not now. Now, he needed to hear Rozanov giving permission to stroke his own cock.
“Say please.” Rozanov demanded, not teasing anymore.
“Please.”
“No.” Shane’s whole body twitch with the refusal.
“I want you to touch your hole now. Your pretty, pretty hole.”
Shane let out a truly pitiful moan as he moved his hand from his taint to rest his fingertips on his rim.
“Yes, just like that. You like that, Hollander? You like your hole to be called pretty?” Rozanov’s low moan reverberated in the room, making Shane more desperate. He could hear the slick noises coming from Rozanov’s side. It was unfair, him touching himself so freely, when Shane’s poor dick was suffering from only getting any kind of friction from air and when it accidentally bumped his own lower stomach. “I like to call it pretty. Because it is. Pretty and tight and I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Maybe Shane could just come like this, Rozanov’s thick accent in his ear, two damp fingers on top of his rim—playing with it without even getting in.
“Get that toy wet.”
“Ahh, I don’t— I have to get up to get the lube.”
“Then, use your mouth, Hollander.”
A moment later, Shane was sucking on the purple plastic with abandon. Shane was sure Rozanov could here the wet sucking sounds. He felt arousal and humiliation thrummed in his veins.
“Fuck. Yes. Just like that. It’s no better than my dick. I know. But you love sucking. We can’t left your cute mouth empty, no?”
Shane garbled out a wordless response —a denial or approval, nobody would now— and made the dildo nice and wet. When he was ready, he let Rozanov know.
“Just the tip, could you do that for me?” Yes, Shane could do that for Rozanov.
He let out an obscene moan, knowing the other could hear him easily. After resting the tip of the tool for a moment, getting used to the feeling, Shane pushed it in a little. The head wasn’t the widest part and if it was just the tip, he didn’t think it would be a problem that he wasn’t stretched at all. The friction there and the resistance of his tight hole made him threw his head back. Sweat beginning to appear on his forehead and between his chest, Shane pushed it a bit more. Even with how much he made it wet, spit didn’t really provide the proper lubrication. Shane loved how dirty it made him feel.
When he felt he couldn’t go anymore, he said in a shaky voice, “I did it.”
“Christ. Good. Good. You are doing so well for me, Hollander. Just like that. Tell me. Was it hard?”
“No.” Shane relaxed to the bed, while moving the plastic in small increments back and forth —not pulling out completely, but also not pushing more than Rozanov commanded. The angle wasn’t great, but everything in his head emptied out, and all that remained was the sensation of his throbbing erection, the stretch, and the sound of Rozanov’s husky voice.
“Was it tight?” Barely there grunts accompanied the slick sounds coming out of the speaker.
“Yes,” Shane breathed out.
“Is it better than my cock?”
“No.” Shane didn’t even hesitate.
“God. You are killing me. Do you wish I was there?”
“Rozanov,” Shane groaned.
“Do you wish I was the one fucking you, Hollander? Hmm?” Shane was at the point of begging to touch his own neglected cock. “Do you wish I was there? With you? Fucking you hard and fast? Like what you need?”
“Please, please, Rozanov, ahh.” Shane felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “Yes, yes. I wish.” He choked on the words, but it seemed it was enough of an answer for Rozanov.
Rozanov mumbled something in Russian and then finally said, “Touch yourself. I want to hear it. I want to hear you come for me.”
It took couple of strokes of his hand —his cock so, so wet with precum and so, so sensitive with need— and a single tug at the plastic for Shane to come with a sob and a wail and a moan. He couldn’t say which of the sounds he made. All he knew was he was loud and he was distantly hearing Rozanov’s own answering moan.
“Fuck,” Rozanov said, the first to break the silence, his accent a warm balm easing the haze in his head. “You good?”
Shane took the dildo out of his ass. “Yes. Jesus. Fuck. That was intense.” He tried to go for the tissue paper on his night stand without dripping any of his cum onto the bed. Fuck, it was a lot. “Uhh, are you okay too, Rozanov?” Shane wasn’t going to reach it from where he was melted on the bed. He really didn’t want to move at all. He decided to sacrifice his shirt for some cleanliness.
Rozanov’s soft laugh filled his ear. Warm and easy, just like someone who had climaxed and was happy about it. “Yes, I am alright.”
There was an awkward silence where Shane cleaned his upper body with the best of his abilities and listened Rozanov’s breathing as it softened and slowed.
Rozanov cleared his throat. “Well, I will let you sleep. That was a good game and a boring fight. I hope this was rewarding enough for you.”
“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov,” laughed Shane almost affectionately.
“I though we already did that, Hollander.” Rozanov’s smile could be heard from his teasing voice.
“Goodnight, asshole,” Shane replied.
“Goodnight.” And Rozanov hung up the phone.
Shane threw his phone to the side and hauled himself to the bathroom to clean up properly.
The last thing he thought that night, tucked under his comforter and drifting off, was that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to toss his gloves once in a while.