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“Good evening, and welcome to another wonderful night of hockey! I’m Jacob Martucci, joined tonight by Jack Grayson, and we are both very excited to take you all along for the ride as the Boston Bears take on the Montreal Voyageurs for the first time since their first line was broken up by a trade that came so far out of left field, I’m using a metaphor for a whole different sport.”
“That’s right Jacob. The Bears have played two games since signing Ilya Rozanov in a mid-season trade, but neither of them so far have been against his former team. He seems to have slotted right in with the new team, if those two games are anything to go on, but it will be interesting to see him play against Shane Hollander and the Voyageurs since they were linemates for the entirety of last season—their rookie season—and that included the first playoff run for the Voyageurs in close to a decade. We can’t help but ask ourselves, right Jacob? What will Hollander and Rozanov look like as rivals, as opposed to line mates?”
“Well, with puck drop slated for just under nine minutes from now, we should be getting our answers soon enough. Now, let’s have a look at the starting lineup for the home team, the Montreal Voyageurs, which includes...”
***
“Good to see me again,” Rozanov said as he hunched over the faceoff dot.
“It’s ‘good to see you again,’” Shane grumbled around his mouthguard, trying not to look too closely at the grin etched into Rozanov’s mouth.
“Yes, is what I said. You think is good to see me again. I look good in yellow, yes?”
Shane lost the faceoff.
That was the worst thing so far about playing on the opposing team. He would have to look at the stats later, or just wait for his mother to call so she could tell him herself, but despite their individual faceoff wins being somewhat even, Shane felt like every time he was against Rozanov that percentage was nudged ever so slightly in the latter’s favor. He hadn’t realized it while they were on the same team, because he wasn’t the one losing to him, but Rozanov was a beast in the faceoff circle. Really, he was a beast in the whole rink (a real 200-foot hockey player, the transatlantic accented announcer voice rang in his head). A beast in the locker room.
A beast in the bedroom.
But it had been just about two weeks (13 days, 6 hours) since Rozanov was traded. Just about as long (12 days, 14 hours) since Shane last sent a text to“Lily.”
And as he had proven in their first faceoff on opposing teams, Ilya was still firmly planted on the forefront of Shane’s mind, no matter how often he told himself whatever thing they had as teammates couldn’t continue as rivals.
Anyway.
The faceoff was done, but that was only the first step. Shane’s teammate intercepted the puck at the blue line, pulled it to his forehand and slid a beautiful tape-to-tape pass to Shane between a Bears’ player’s legs. Shane stepped on the gas, quickly pulling a stickhandling move to keep out of the way of the player coming up on his heels. He faked a pass to the left, and threw the puck to Hayden just before getting smashed into the boards by what felt like a semi-truck carrying an entire mountain’s worth of boulders.
Shane ended up flat on the ice, chest to chest with-
Rozanov. Of course.
Rozanov shot him a grin, exposing his perfect teeth, shockingly perfect for a professional hockey player, even one in only his second season.
Shane closed his eyes and took a deep breath, doing a quick mental tally to make sure nothing hurt more than it should’ve after the hit. Eyes closed, practically on top of Rozanov, the last image in his head of his stupid perfect grin and unnaturally sparkly green eyes...
His brain supplied him with a memory from a little over two weeks ago (14 days, 18 hours) of Il- Rozanov’s teeth grazing Shane’s inner thigh while he was sucking his soul out through his cock.
Rozanov made a sound halfway between a moan and a grunt on the ice next to him.
“Don’t act like a broken puppy, you’re the one who plowed into me,” Shane scolded as he climbed back onto his skates. Because he wasn’t a complete asshole (unlike some people) he reached out a hand to help Rozanov up.
“Mm, yes, I did plow you. About two weeks ago, yes?”
Shane rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to drop him right back down on his ass.
14 days, 18 hours, and 15 minutes ago, actually.
***
Boston won.
If anyone asked—and they sure did ask, Shane drew the short stick to put him on the post-game press lineup after the game—he would say the Voyageurs played a close game and Rozanov’s absence on their bench was felt by every member of the team. What he was really thinking, though, was a long and convoluted inner monologue amounting to “I can’t fucking believe Rozanov hit me one fucking time and I let it get in my head for the whole rest of the fucking game.”
As the home team, the Voyageurs had the first slot in the press room after the game. Shane and his two teammates and their coach sloughed through the same boring questions they always get after a loss at home. Once the allotted time was finally up, the four men filed off the stage and out of the room to grab their things from the locker room and head back home to have some food, or go to bed, or in Shane’s case, wallow in the pit of despair that came after a loss where he just couldn’t get the ice to tilt in his favor for whatever reason.
The reason, as it turns out, was waiting outside of the press room door to intercept Shane on his way back to the locker room.
As if the handshake line after the game wasn’t enough time for Rozanov to gloat his fill after his new team’s first win.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Shane said.
“Fairmont. Room 1258.” Rozanov said. Then smiled almost shyly.
Shane had to do a double take. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious to all the news outlet reps in the room two steps behind him. And it wasn’t like they were sworn enemies or anything, up until two weeks ago you couldn’t say “Hollander” without immediately following with “and Rozanov.” Of course their names were still a pair, now just for a different reason. Point being, there was nothing wrong with catching up with your old teammate while they spent the night in your city.
The press didn’t need to know exactly how they planned to do that catching up.
Shane fought his blush and gave a quick nod before hurrying down the hall to collect his gym bag and head to the parking garage. He wanted to stop at home and take a real shower with his nice soap and actual conditioner before showing up at Ilya’s hotel room.
He thought about putting on a button-down shirt but decided that would be too much, opting instead for a plain t-shirt under his Voyageurs crewneck.
If the rest of the evening went as planned, he wouldn’t be wearing anything for long.
***
About 38 minutes later, Shane was knocking on Rozanov's hotel room door.
"Wow, you miss me? You sprint up the stairs?"
"You're on the twelfth floor, no I didn't take the damn stairs." Shane said as he closed the door. He wasted no time putting his hands on Rozanov's waist and walking them back until his knees hit the bed. "And so what if I missed you?"
If the thinly-veiled confession hadn't woken up the butterflies in Shane's stomach, the feeling of Ilya's lips on his would've done the job. Shane traced his hands up Ilya's sides, stopping to quickly brush the hardening nipples under his Boston Bears t-shirt (the motherfucker, of course he would take every opportunity to rub salt in the wound). Ilya gasped, like he always did, and Shane took the parting of his lips as an invitation to go further with the kiss. He licked into Ilya's mouth, and Ilya finally put his hands on Shane's body, cold fingertips meeting warm skin as he pushed the sweatshirt up just high enough that he could begin to trace the contours of Shane's abs as they flexed with breaths that had already started to become ragged.
Ilya broke the kiss, in part to let Shane catch his breath, but mostly to move on to kissing across the freckled planes of Shane's cheeks. Ilya shifted his hands to pull their hips together as he kissed across Shane's face, to his jaw, and finally to the spot just under Shane's ear that he had quickly learned turned him into a whining mess.
As if on cue, Shane took that moment to buck his hips into Ilya's, letting a high pitched whine escape his lips. Ilya's hand found its way up to the back of Shane's head to hold him in place while Ilya tried his best to kiss every freckle on his cheeks, his neck, and, damn it, the fucking sweatshirt was blocking the freckles on his collarbones from view.
"Off," Ilya said, pushing Shane's crewneck further up his torso.
"Since when do you sound so wrecked just from kissing," Shane teased while they separated so he could pull off the offending layers of clothing. Truthfully, Shane's voice wasn't faring much better.
"Shut the fuck up," was all Ilya could come up with as a retort. Because he is very helpful, he immediately crashed his lips back into Shane's with renewed vigor. "Maybe I miss you, too," he mumbled into the kiss.
Shane whined as Ilya made his way back to pick up where he left off on his freckle-kissing tour of Shane's upper body. First, the newly revealed collarbone freckles, where he took extra time to suck a tiny mark on the high point of Shane's clavicle.
"Anyone who sees will think is your pads irritating your skin, yes?" Ilya said, cutting off the half-baked protest forming on Shane's tongue.
"Sure, why not," Shane grunted. Anything to get Ilya's mouth back on him.
Satisfied, Ilya continued down Shane's body, taking a nipple gently between his teeth. He did something insane with his tongue that pulled a full on moan from Shane's throat, and Shane could feel the way Ilya's lips curved up into an impish grin. Ilya hummed, sending barely perceptible vibrations through his already very sensitive nipple, and a hand curled in Ilya's hair was all Shane could do not to collapse right there. Ilya gave the same treatment to Shane's other nipple, pulling another moan from Shane. His hips bucked up, seeking friction but finding none.
"Ilya," Shane whined, and used the grip in Ilya's hair to pull him off his nipple. "Shirt off."
"Very demanding for someone who lost his hockey game today," Ilya teased.
"Fuck you," Shane said, but somehow the kiss-drunk expression on Ilya's face complete with hooded eyes and spit-shiny lips didn't allow Shane to give the phrase its usual bite.
Shane was delighted to finally see Ilya's bare chest when he removed that god awful Bears shirt, and even more delighted to get his hands on him with no obstacles in the way. He took one of Ilya's pecs in his hand and squeezed, glad to hear Ilya's staccato groan in response. Shane immediately wanted to pull more noises from Ilya, and knew one surefire way in particular to fulfill that goal.
Shane dropped to his knees.
He looked up at Ilya through his eyelashes as he palmed his already hard cock through his dark jeans.
"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya groaned, until he saw the expression on Shane's face turn to a tiny scowl. Then, "Shane," Ilya corrected himself, breathlessly.
Satisfied, Shane made quick work of the button on Ilya's jeans, and laughed to himself when he saw the zipper was already undone. He nuzzled Ilya's bulge through his briefs, feeling the wet spot drag deliciously across his cheekbone as he tugged his waistband down, fighting briefly to get the tight pants over Ilya's ass. Shane began mouthing at Ilya's length, further soaking his underwear with his own spit. Ilya's hands moved to Shane's hair. He didn't take a handful to pull on just yet, opting to run his blunt nails over Shane's scalp. Shane moaned, sending vibrations around Ilya's clothed dick.
“Stop teasing,” Ilya grunted out above him, which only made Shane want to drag his tongue over his bulge slower.
Ilya’s grip tightened in Shane’s hair, pulling a choked sound from the back of his throat.
“Shane.” The authority in Ilya’s tone sent a shockwave through Shane’s nervous system, enough that he leaned back to look up at Ilya with wide eyes. “Do you want me to fuck you or no?”
“Please, yes, please,” Shane panted.
“Okay. Undress and sit on the bed.”
Shane could feel Ilya’s eyes on him even though he felt as though he was moving through a dream taking off his pants, shoes, socks, and underwear. His body remembered how to make the motions, but his brain was only thinking about Ilya and how good it would feel when his mouth was finally on him again, his long, calloused fingers tracing along his inner thighs on their way to open him up—
He wasn’t even sitting on the bed yet, literally just standing and folding his pants when the moan escaped.
“What are you thinking about, sweetheart?” Ilya asked.
Shane couldn’t answer. Barely had more than colors and shapes in his brain. Certainly not words.
“I asked question.” Ilya said in an accusatory tone as he took a step toward Shane to speak against the shell of his ear. “You will answer.”
“You.” It was barely a whisper.
“What about me?”
Ilya took Shane’s ear between his teeth.
“Y-your hands. Fingers. On me...”
“Hmmm...” Ilya hummed into his ear.
Shane shivered. “In me.”
“Get on the bed. Kneel. Face headboard.”
Shane did not have to be told twice.
He knelt on the bed, resting most of his weight on his forearms and his ass in the air where Ilya could see it. He waited patiently for Ilya to come up behind him after removing what was left of his own clothing, despite the embarrassing amount of precome that was gathering under him on the comforter.
He didn't even whine. That much. He could be good.
Finally, after what could've been 30 seconds or 3 hours, Ilya's hands grabbed Shane's waist. He traced over his hips, down the muscles in his thighs, which by then were stiff from trying not to shake with anticipation. Shane's only warning before Ilya's tongue was on his hole was a self-satisfied puff-of-air laugh that might as well have been the winds of a category six hurricane for how sensitive Shane was already.
Ilya took one of Shane's ass cheeks in each hand to make more room for his face between them, and hungrily licked into the puckering muscle. Each pass drew increasingly filthy and desperate sounds from Shane. Ilya slowly worked his tongue into Shane's hole, stopping to kiss and bite at the backs of his thighs when his jaw got too tired. He sucked a particularly dark mark just under Shane's left ass cheek, a matching set with the lighter one already on his clavicle.
Ilya licked over the new mark before pressing an open-mouthed kiss over Shane's hole. The sensation was enough to send Shane babbling, saying everything and nothing about Ilya's mouth, his tongue, how much he needed him, more, please god, more—Shane couldn't help himself, he shifted his weight to his left arm to reach under himself and grab his neglected cock in his right fist.
Lightning fast, Ilya's hand covered his own, pulling it off of his cock.
"Nyet. You don't touch. I take care of you."
With both of Shane's arms again supporting his weight, Ilya reached a hand up to Shane's mouth and pushed his first two fingers between his lips.
"Yes, wet them for me," Ilya said, swallowing down the neediness in his voice in favor of ordering Shane around for at least a couple more minutes.
Shane wrapped his tongue around Ilya's fingers, flitting between them before he gave in and sucked. Ilya swirled them in his mouth, collecting as much spit as possible, before pressing them down onto the length of Shane's tongue. Shane gagged a little, swallowed around Ilya's fingers, and moaned from deep in his chest. Ilya dragged his fingers out of Shane's mouth, smearing a little spit over his lips and cheek in the process before finally ghosting them over Shane's hole in slow, barely-there circles.
Shane bucked his hips, which only resulted in a loss of contact and a reminder of how desperately he needed Ilya's fingers.
"Please," Shane whined, "please touch me, I need-"
"Good boy, remembering to use your words," Ilya praised at the same time as his first finger breached Shane's hole.
Despite his eagerness in preparing Ilya's fingers, the intrusion still burned. Shane breathed through it, almost sobbing at finally getting that first taste of being filled. Shane gasped at the cold drizzle of lube over his hole, then sighed deeply as it allowed for a smoother glide when Ilya entered him to the third knuckle. Ilya pulled his finger in and out only a couple of times before he could tell Shane was ready for a second finger.
"You are still taking me so easily, Shane," Ilya said, unable to keep the awe from his voice. "Is like I never even left."
"Itouchedmyselfthinkingofyou," Shane moaned, breathless, shifting forward to press his blush into the mattress at the confession.
"What do you say?"
"Nothing," Shane mumbled.
Ilya pulled his fingers all the way out, the tip of his middle finger barely hovering over Shane's entrance.
"I ask again, Shane. You said what?"
"I- I touched myself. Thinking of you."
"How often."
"Al- hn- almost every night."
"Fuck, Holl- Shane. Sweetheart. Baby. Come here," Ilya said, voice overcome with tenderness.
Shane looked over his shoulder to see Ilya's eyebrows raised and his lips slightly parted, his curls a glowing halo in the light of the bedside lamp. Shane allowed himself to be maneuvered until he was laying on his back, pillows supporting his head and neck and one more supporting his lower back for good measure. Ilya brushed his hair to the side in a gentle touch, only dimly aware that it had been in his asshole mere moments ago.
Oh well, he could let Ilya wash his face in the shower later.
Ilya kissed Shane so tenderly, he could feel his eyes welling up with tears. He whimpered into the kiss, which Ilya must've mistaken for a different kind of desperation, because a second later Ilya's hand was curled around Shane's cock. Shane moaned in ernest, bucking wildly at the sensation. Ilya's other hand traveled lower, toying again with Shane's entrance.
"You are ready for me?" Ilya asked against Shane's lips.
"Yes," Shane replied, unable to think past those three letters that would get him anything he wanted.
Ilya's slicked cock poked at Shane's entrance, and he was once again reminded just how big he was. If he didn't already have tears in his eyes, this certainly would've been the breaking point, especially after Ilya pressed forward until he was fully inside.
"Good job practicing," Ilya half praised, half teased as he waited for Shane's permission to move.
It came soon enough, in the form of a desperate nod, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
"Okay," Shane whispered before Ilya could remind him to use his words.
"Good," Ilya praised.
Shane exhaled, the sigh quickly turning to a moan as Ilya started to move, slowly at first to let Shane get acclimated to the sensation, then faster as Ilya began to lose his composure surrounded as he was by Shane's tight heat.
With all the teasing beforehand, Shane was surprised he lasted more than 12 seconds after Ilya entered him. Despite his cock screaming for attention, Shane kept his arms above his head, or around Ilya's neck when he leaned over to deepen his thrusts. He left payback for the hickeys in the form of scratches down Ilya's back, and dug his nails into the muscles of Ilya's shoulders when Ilya finally wrapped his hand around Shane's cock again. Ilya's thrusts soon began to grow erratic, and Shane realized Ilya hadn't touched himself the entire time he was torturing him with his tongue earlier.
"Shane, you are close?" Ilya asked, the desperation in his voice delicious and on full display. No use in hiding it now.
"Yes, yeah, 'm close."
"Good. Am close too," he said, made obvious by the way the thrusts of his hips and pumps of his hand fell out of sync as Ilya truly began to chase his own release.
Shane loved the moment Ilya started to lose control like this, his face screwed up in concentration until every muscle relaxed, the tension in his jaw and across his brow bone melting away as he found his pleasure between Shane's thighs.
Shane came across Ilya's knuckles with his name on his lips a breath before Ilya pressed his forehead into Shane's shoulder as his cock throbbed inside of him. They stayed that way for a while, catching their breath, breathing each other in. Content, Shane ran his thumb over Ilya's cheekbone, lightly grazing his eyelashes where they rested over his cheeks, eyes closed as he basked in Shane.
Ilya pressed a kiss to a cluster of freckles on Shane's shoulder before pulling out and going to get a towel from the en suite to clean them up. Shane whined at the unavoidable overstimulation, quickly pressing his fingers to his entrance to stop Ilya's come from leaking too far and ruining the sheets he hoped to maybe sleep in that night. Before long, Ilya returned with a damp towel and plenty of kisses to glide across Shane's abs, between his thighs, and over his ass.
The warmth of the afterglow, the warmth of the towel, and the warmth of Ilya's kisses were enough to send Shane into a post-orgasm power nap. He woke to a quiet snore against his ear to find Ilya's limbs tangled with his own, and the sheets thrown haphazardly over their midsections.
Shane smiled, and let himself drift back to sleep.
The Voyageurs were scheduled to play in Boston in less than two weeks.
(13 days, 19 hours.)