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It was raining in Montreal.
The Metros had won that night, 4-3. Ilya bolted off the ice and into the locker room, sitting alone for a few breaths before the team burst in, grumbling and swearing. He’d sat through the coach’s torturous post-game speech. He’d showered quickly, pulled his clothes on, and thrown around some vapid excuses.
If Ilya had left with the team, he’d be at the club—arms tangled around a pretty whatever, sweat and liquor mixing with tongues and teeth. For a second, he’s wrapped in regret. Because it’s so easy to fuck beautiful women. It’s easy to make their eyes roll back, to make them squirm and sigh. It’s easy to leave without the promise of a second time.
Ilya lit a cigarette.
Recently, it had been hard for Ilya to think about fucking without thinking about Hollander. So he thought of Hollander. Hollander was steadfast. He had discerning eyes that made Ilya’s stomach turn. He had a birthmark on his side that Ilya’s lips had traced twice. He fell to pieces in Ilya’s hands, under Ilya’s touch.
Hollander was infuriating. He was sickeningly steady. While Rozanov spat and yelled and barreled around the rink like a beast, Hollander darted and danced and scored soundlessly. Rozanov was greedy, Hollander was practical. Rozanov was impatient, Hollander was composed.
Rozanov was fire. Hollander was ice. Cold to the touch.
Ilya thought of his days in training camp, back in Russia. When he was younger and used to bite Sasha’s lips until they bled. They fought with coke-numb mouths. They fucked painfully, bound and gagged by secrets and lies. Sometimes, he missed it. He missed the simplicity, the fleeting sting. Hollander was a different sort of pain, the kind Ilya couldn’t wash down with vodka, or burn out with cigarettes, or fuck away with faceless women. It was lasting, twisting. It was the kind of pain that stayed with him for months. The kind of pain that wasn’t healed by absence or closeness.
Ilya shuddered, tossing his cigarette. He stepped out into the rain. It dampened his hair and rolled down his jacket as he walked through the streets semi-aimlessly, running through each play in his head. He’d slammed Hollander into the boards six times that night. The frustration of winning each face-off only to have the puck snatched back moments later was far too much to bear. Ilya had screamed, spat, shoved, and fought. It was second nature.
Ilya had writhed with jealousy as the media, once again, crowned Shane Hollander boy king of the NHL. It didn’t matter that the game was inconsequential. They were practically still in pre-season. It didn’t matter. They worshipped Hollander. Rozanov had been that in Russia, but Americans were soft. Canadians were softer. What Rozanov lacked in discipline, he made up for in raw talent. But Hollander had both. And Rozanov hated him for it. Instead of feeling his usual rush of shame after a loss, Ilya felt nothing but rage. He was not adjusting well to having a worthy opponent.
Montreal glared down at Ilya, all dull street lamps and twisted streets, office buildings and apartment buildings casting deep shadows on rain-slick roads. Ilya missed the cobbled streets of Moscow, the steeples and galleries. He missed Svetlana’s easy smile and her boisterous laugh. He missed smoking cigarettes with his stupid teammates outside the Megasport. It was his brand of loneliness, missing people and places that were no longer his. Moscow was no longer his. Returning home for the summer elicited an emptiness that Ilya hadn’t felt in years. Or maybe he had felt it all along. An emptiness for which there was one fix, specifically. Because Hollander was a good man, a good son, a good player. He was a reminder. A prayer. Before he knew it, Ilya found himself in a familiar back alley, drenched in rain. It was second nature.
The rain gusted sideways, guided by the wind. Seeking shelter under a nearby awning, Ilya flicked open his phone.
Lily: Awake?
They hadn’t made plans. Hollander didn’t text him after the game. But they hadn’t touched in ages, and Ilya’s trembling fingers craved the feeling of soft skin and lean muscle.
Some sick part of Ilya also wanted Hollander to see him. See that Rozanov was the better player, see that Rozanov deserved the win. Today, after this loss, Rozanov did not need a reminder of the goodness and purity of the world. He needed to show Hollander that he might be good, but Rozanov was the best. And that sick part of Ilya festered out in the rain. In the cold. Hollander was probably inside watching his own interviews. Or reading a book. Or following some scientifically optimized sleep schedule.
His phone buzzed.
Jane: Yeah.
This was unexpected. Their last meeting had been testy, with Hollander stalking away, leaving Ilya alone on a roof in Vegas with a ridiculous hard-on and the taste of expensive whiskey in his mouth.
Lily: I’m outside.
Ilya shivered, finally feeling the chill seep past his jacket and into his skin. He lit another cigarette, not expecting a response. The door opened moments later.
Hollander peered out from the doorway, squinting across the parking lot. Ilya blew out a cloud of smoke, watching Hollander scan the empty street. He stepped back into the light, stalking towards him, discarding the cigarette as he walked.
“What the hell are you doing?” Hollander asked. “Get inside.”
Ilya reached for the soft sound in the night, ducking into the stairwell. Hollander looked frazzled. They stared at each other. Ilya studied Hollander. He studied the curve of Hollander’s jaw, imagining the feeling of grabbing it and wrenching his face closer. He studied Hollander’s lips, remembering them swollen, slick with spit and cum. He studied Hollander’s freckles. He wanted to kiss—
Hollander broke first. “Why are you here?” he asked. He sounded alarmed, as if he expected Ilya to finish what he started on the ice.
Ilya laughed, swiping the rain from his eyes. “Was… walking.”
Hollander’s face went blank. “Walking.”
“After the game. Wanted to…”
Hollander laughed dryly. “Yeah. It was a tough loss.”
The sick feeling crept back in.
“Fuck you, Hollander,” he said, voice dripping in venom. “I would have—”
Hollander’s eyes darkened. “Excuses, Rozanov. We kicked your ass.”
Ilya moved closer, anger settling into his expression. He ached to watch Hollander cum, following his orders and screaming his name. He wanted Hollander to feel him everywhere. He wanted Hollander to remember. He thought he heard Hollander’s breath hitch, but it could have been the wind.
Almost involuntarily, Ilya reached up to Hollander’s face, gripping it roughly. “This game, Hollander… was—er—fluke.”
Hollander sighed, “I am the best player in the league, Rozanov. Don’t beat yourself up.” Ilya’s cheeks flushed when he saw Hollander’s lips twitch into a smile. He loved it when Hollander pushed him, loved that Hollander knew which buttons to push. Their bodies were pressed up against each other now. Ilya burned despite the cold. He pressed his other hand to Hollander’s ribs. Where he knew it hurt.
Hollander inhaled. “Fuck off,” he said plainly, through gritted teeth.
“I checked you six times,” Ilya said softly, bringing their lips closer and splaying his fingers wide. He memorized every ridge of muscle with his hands. “You took it well.”
Hollander was gasping now, and Ilya could barely breathe. They always seemed to knock the wind out of each other. “You always take it so well.” Ilya continued, pushing his thumb into Hollander’s mouth. Hollander's lips closed around him, and Ilya saw stars. It shocked him how receptive Hollander was. It almost made Ilya regret what he wanted to do. Almost.
Hollander sucked on Ilya’s fingers like his life depended on it. He stared Ilya down the whole time, with big, searching eyes. Finally, Ilya pulled his fingers out of Hollander’s mouth. Hollander already looked gone. Spent. Ilya maintained his grip on Hollander’s neck, pressed forward, and kissed him.
Ilya always kissed violently, with sharp teeth digging into Hollander’s lips and sharp nails digging into Hollander’s side. He kissed with pain, and want, and fire. Ilya sucked at Hollander’s lips desperately, ravaging him with all the envy and rage he felt when the buzzer rang and Hollander threw his gloves in the air.
Hollander always kissed deeply. Hollander kissed Ilya like he was drowning and Ilya was air. He started timidly, but pressed on determinedly as that feeling built and built. That feeling that pooled in Ilya’s gut every time they were in a five-foot radius of each other. Hollander threaded his fingers in Ilya’s wet hair and licked at his lips. Hollander met sharp teeth with stable persistence. With ice. He never fought back, but he didn’t relent either. He let Ilya burst into flames in his hands and received him as an equal.
Ilya broke the kiss, spending another moment analyzing Hollander’s face. He didn’t get to do this often. Hollander stole a kiss. It was chaste. If Ilya didn’t know Hollander better, he’d think Hollander was being sweet. But Hollander wasn’t sweet, not to Ilya. He wasn’t sweet like the girls Ilya liked to fuck, the ones that would play with his hair and trace patterns on his spine. Hollander pleaded with Ilya, taunted Ilya, touched Ilya in a way that made him sick with desire, but Hollander was never sweet. He was better. He was a challenge. The kiss was a dare to continue, to finish what Ilya started.
“Rozanov,” he breathed. “You taste like cigarettes. Come upstairs.”
Ilya felt tempted to bend him over on the staircase and take him then and there. He nodded sharply, feeling fire settle in his stomach. Hollander opened the door, and they stepped into the dimly lit apartment.
“You’re dripping on my floor,” Hollander said suddenly.
“Sorry,” Ilya replied, barely concealing his laugh. He shucked off his jacket, dropping it on the floor in an overt rebellion against Hollander’s incessant need to hang and fold clothing. He took his shoes off, then his socks. Then his shirt.
Hollander was staring. “Your jeans are wet, too."
“No way,” Ilya deadpanned.
“Let me,” Hollander said, fiddling with the button, then the zip. Ilya let Hollander undress him, and Hollander got on his knees the second Ilya’s jeans hit the floor. Ilya smiled to himself.
“Not yet, Hollander—is not that easy.”
Hollander nodded, but stayed kneeling. “Please?” he whispered.
Ilya reached down and grabbed Hollander’s jaw. “I told you. Not that easy.” Ilya walked past him into the living room and sat down on the couch.
“Come here,” he commanded.
Hollander obliged, kneeling on the floor between Ilya’s legs. Jesus Christ.
Ilya watched Hollander watch him. With curiosity, with excitement. He wondered if Hollander was memorizing the way Ilya memorized. The heat returned, but then again, it never left. Ilya needed Hollander to repent for the dirty, disgusting look in his eye as he answered the post-game interview questions. Ilya needed Hollander to repent for winning the game, for winning over the league, for winning. Ilya needed to see that wretched look creep into Hollander’s eyes, needed to witness the reckless abandon with which Hollander took him. He needed to show Hollander that there was one king, one God, both on and off the ice. It felt so fucking good to hate this much, to need this much.
“This game, Hollander,” Ilya said, reaching a hand into his briefs, “I should have won, I think.” Ilya began stroking his own cock, partially because he knew how desperate Hollander was to touch him, partially because he was starting to get uncomfortably hard.
“No way,” Hollander said, shaking his head. He touched Ilya’s thigh absentmindedly. At this point, Ilya was well-accustomed to Hollander’s freezing fingers. He knew to expect the cold. “You were sloppy. You don’t pass. I could give you some pointers sometime, if you’d like—”
Ilya laughed. Hollander’s grin faltered when Ilya mercifully kicked off his underwear. Ilya knew he was a vision. He’d been told. But it was significantly hotter to fuck someone who’d never say those words out loud. Hollander was still fully clothed, but Ilya could see his cock straining against his sweatpants. He recalled the beginning of their—affair? Arrangement? Hollander used to come in his pants routinely, just from sucking Ilya off.
“I want you to remember,” Ilya murmured, “who is best player in league.”
Hollander scoffed, “I remember fine.”
Ilya stopped stroking his cock and leaned forward, an inch away from Hollander’s face. “Open your fucking mouth,” he said.
Hollander opened his mouth, tilting his head up.
And Ilya spat. Right into Hollander’s mouth.
Hollander sat stunned for a moment. But the defiant look in his eyes returned, and he swallowed Ilya’s spit.
“Fuck,” Ilya said, losing some of his resolve. “Fucking—take your clothes off.
Hollander scrambled. Ilya watched, relishing the purple bruises that stained Hollander’s side. Hollander slowly kneeled back down between Ilya’s legs. Ilya pretended he wasn’t trembling as Hollander kissed the side of his knee. As Hollander kissed up his thigh. As Hollander froze, inches from Ilya’s cock.
“Now can I please touch you?” Hollander asked gently.
“Hollander,” Ilya replied, dragging the tip of his cock along Hollander’s stupid fucking lips, “who is best player?”
Hollander made a noise that was halfway between a moan and a sigh. “Me,” he said. “Still me.”
“Fuck,” Ilya growled. His cock was leaking onto Hollander’s lips. It was painful, seeing Hollander kneeling on the floor with an aching cock and glassy eyes. It was perfect, seeing Hollander beg and plead in his own unrelenting way. Ilya wanted to shut him up. Ilya wanted to kiss him. Ilya wanted to fuck him and leave. Ilya wanted to fuck him and stay. Ilya wondered if Hollander felt it too, that incurable pain. That sickening indecision. He doubted it.
Ilya needed more. He needed to memorize the taste of Hollander’s sweat, his cum, his tears. He needed to memorize the feeling of being inside Hollander. There was never enough time. They went months without these rendezvous, months where Ilya was forced to fuck other people. Months he spent wondering if Hollander was fucking other people. The thought of anyone except him getting to see Hollander like this spread through his veins like tar. Ilya lunged forward, stood up, and slammed his cock into Hollander’s mouth.
Hollander was a dream. He choked, gagged, adjusted. Small tears bloomed at the corners of his eyes as he took Ilya in. Dutifully. Ilya began to fuck Hollander’s mouth. Roughly. Rougher than he ever had before. Hollander’s cock was leaking, but he didn’t seem to care. He breathed in sharply through his nose and gazed up at Ilya.
“Fuck, just like that, Hollander,” Ilya grunted, knees almost buckling.
Sometimes it felt like a sickness. A disease. Chronic. Ilya was the best—yes, the best hockey player in the world. And yet, one look from Hollander reduced him to dust. Whether it was during interviews or during sex or during one of their arguments-turned-sex, Hollander had this special look he reserved for only Ilya. Hollander hadn’t weaponized it during games yet, but Ilya knew it was only a matter of time. It had been easier to do this when they were both rookies, when Hollander was messy and fumbling, and Ilya reeked of ego after being picked first in the draft. Ilya had felt powerful, indestructible. But as they grew together, Ilya noticed Hollander approaching their encounters with a precision he typically reserved for the ice. Hollander studied him. Hollander knew him. Knew how to twist the knife. Ilya was rendered entirely destructible.
He continued fucking Hollander’s mouth, savoring the filthy sounds that escaped his lips. Hollander’s mouth was heaven-sent. Soft and pink and wet and so fucking inviting. So eager. Ilya was close. He grabbed a fistful of Hollander’s hair and pulled him off, watching the long column of Hollander’s throat strain and shift. A tear ran down his cheek, and Ilya pulled him up off the floor. He kissed the tear right as it dipped past Hollander’s jawline.
Hollander reached his hands up to tangle in Ilya’s hair and kissed him. Hollander knew that Ilya loved to taste himself. Again, he kissed with stable persistence. But sloppier this time. He was breaking. Ilya felt Hollander claw at him, mumbling “please”, and almost came untouched.
Ilya wrapped a hand around Hollander’s neck and guided them, kissing, to Hollander’s bed. Hollander lay down, watching Ilya with insistence. Ilya bracketed Hollander’s body with his arms, and Hollander’s legs instinctively fell open to wrap Ilya close. Their cocks touched, and Hollander screwed his eyes shut at the brief contact, gasping. Ilya’s fingers found Hollander’s neck once more. He traced Hollander’s jugular and asked, demanding against Hollander’s lips: “Who is best player?”
Hollander let out a low whine. “Still me, Rozanov,” he strained. He sounded less assured this time. Hollander’s cock was dripping all over his stomach, and his cheeks were bright red. He dared Ilya to continue.
Ilya leaned back for a moment, hand fixed to Hollander’s neck. He inspected the bruises on Hollander’s side, grazing them with his lips. Kissing them. Licking them. Hollander was nearly thrashing at this point, but Ilya knew he loved it. It had always been their way of remembering each other. Ilya would leave small love bites on Hollander’s inner thighs. Hollander would dig rough scratches into Ilya’s back. Ilya wondered if Hollander got himself off pressing down on the ghosts of Ilya’s lips. In the days after their meetings, the wounds on Ilya’s back would sting whenever he took a shower. And he would inevitably end up gripping the wall, roughly stroking his cock.
Ilya released Hollander’s neck and grabbed a bottle of lube from the nightstand. He coated his fingers, gazed deeply into Hollander’s eyes, and pushed a finger in. And Hollander nearly screamed, back arching shamelessly. The ache was too much to bear. Hollander’s cock looked downright painful at this point, and a pool of cum had formed on his stomach. Ilya dragged a finger through, painting the hard ridges of Hollander’s abdomen, and tasted it.
“Rozanov, please touch me more. More. More.” Hollander was panting, begging. Nearly crying.
“Like this?” Ilya purred, pushing another finger into Hollander. He moved his fingers in and out. He and Hollander had practiced this dance countless times. They were experts. Ilya knew exactly how to curl his fingers to make Hollander moan. Ilya knew exactly the angle that Hollander liked, the one that made him grab Ilya by the shoulders and dig his nails in deep. The only thing Ilya was better at than hockey was fucking Shane Hollander.
“Another,” Hollander commanded, reaching down to stroke his own cock.
“Slut,” Ilya said, obligingly. He intercepted Hollander’s hands before he could touch himself, pinning them above his head.
Ilya worked Hollander open, rougher than usual. He watched Hollander writhe, felt him tighten on his fingers, heard him moan and gasp louder and louder until—
“Fuck. Rozanov, I’m gonna—I need to—”
“Who—” Ilya said, kissing Hollander gently, removing his fingers. “Who is best player?”
Hollander’s eyes fluttered shut. “Me, me, it’s me.”
“Wrong,” Ilya said. And he pushed into Hollander unforgivingly.
Every muscle in Hollander’s body tightened. Ilya felt. He saw. He released Hollander’s hands and ran a hand down his stomach. He wanted to push down hard. Make it hurt more. Maybe he’d feel himself filling Hollander up. Ilya fucked Hollander mercilessly. Hollander loved it. Ilya knew that. He was making these soft, incomprehensible noises, gazing into Ilya’s eyes. Ilya loved it when the facade slipped. It only slipped in these moments, these quiet moments where Hollander broke himself in two to please Ilya. When he took all of Ilya in, needed all of him. Ilya pressed their foreheads together and fucked into Hollander even harder.
“Look at me,” Ilya said. Almost pleading.
“Fuck you, I’m looking,” Hollander gasped back.
Ilya watched Hollander’s eyes fill with tears. He buried his face in the crook of Hollander’s neck and bit him softly. Sucked on his soft soft soft skin. Tasted his sweat. Ilya fucked Hollander with the fire of jealousy and loathing. Hollander accepted Ilya with pure ice, pure determination. He was pliant, but never fragile. He was strong and resolute, and his fingers found a home, streaking lines of hate down Ilya’s back. Ilya wasn’t sure if Hollander hated him. But Ilya was damn sure that Hollander was made for him.
Ilya kissed Hollander. Hollander’s tongue deftly traced the ridges of his teeth. When Ilya pulled away, a line of spit connected their mouths.
“I need to cum, Rozanov,” Hollander said sharply. “Please, I need to cum.”
Ilya snapped his hips, and Hollander let out a desperate sound. “If you want to cum, tell me I’m the best player in fucking league.”
“No, no, no,” Hollander persisted, and Ilya felt a jolt of pleasure run through his bones. Hollander’s movements were becoming uncoordinated, loose. He was bursting at the seams, and Ilya would have died to see this moment on repeat. Every day. All the time. Hollander was babbling, moaning, feverishly fucking himself on Ilya’s cock.
“Tell me, Hollander,” Ilya continued, jabbing at Hollander’s bruises. He felt dirty. “Please, please tell me.”
This was new. Uncharted. Ilya did a lot of things, but he never begged. He never asked nicely. Hollander’s surprise flashed across his face for a fleeting moment. “Ask me again,” he mumbled, never breaking eye contact.
“Please, Hollander,” Ilya groaned. “Fuck, I need it.” He snapped his hips again, and Hollander let out the filthiest sound Ilya had ever heard. Tears were spilling down Hollander’s cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice. Ilya kissed them from his face and immediately hated himself for it.
Then Hollander stilled and took Ilya’s face in his hands. He wiped a bead of sweat forming on Ilya’s brow and wrenched their faces impossibly close.
“You’re the best player in the league, Rozanov,” Hollander finally relented. “The best,” he continued, stunning Ilya into silence. “I mean it. I love to watch you. I love to play against you. I live for it. You—ah—push me. You’re unforgiving. Your stamina alone is—it’s really something. I learn from you every time. I mean it—fuck—you’re once in a lifetime, Rozanov.”
It felt like an admission. Like a prayer, in Hollander’s own way.
“Thank you,” Ilya groaned. He didn’t know what else to say. Fucking Hollander often made him lose his English. And hearing that come out of Hollander’s mouth nearly rendered him mute. “Come for me now.”
He gripped Hollander’s thigh and bent him in half. He fucked Hollander hard, harder, and with one stroke of his cock, Hollander was coming in loud moans and grunts. His mouth fell open, and Ilya pushed his fingers in, just for fun.
Ilya mustered every fiber of strength in his body to fuck Hollander through his orgasm. Hollander drooled around his fingers and tightened around his cock, and Ilya genuinely wondered if he had died and this was heaven. Ilya pulled out at the last second and unceremoniously angled his cock at Hollander’s face, painting his lips and freckles. Hollander opened his mouth, trying to catch some of Ilya’s cum. Ilya shuddered and gasped and collapsed next to Hollander, then turned to face him. Hollander had cum in his stupid eyelashes. Ilya moved lower, to his stomach, and licked up every last drop of Hollander’s orgasm. Then, he returned to Hollander’s face, dragging his fingers through his own cum and pushing it past Hollander’s lips. Hollander’s tongue swirled around his fingers, and he swallowed obediently with a sigh.
Ilya eased himself down next to Hollander again, turning slightly to inspect his work.
“Do you hurt?” he asked, tracing Hollander’s injury.
Hollander scoffed. Then outright laughed. “Yeah, I hurt. In a good way, though.”
Ilya nodded. “Not too much?”
“It’s not too much,” Hollander replied softly. “I still beat you.”
“Yes,” Ilya said, resignedly. “This time, at least.”
“I’m gonna shower,” Hollander said, swinging his legs off the bed. He sounded apologetic. Ilya felt the emptiness. The soundless, touchless vacuum. He wanted Hollander to come back and punch him in the face, or something. So he could feel him for longer.
“Okay. I will go.”
Hollander met his gaze with a curt nod.
As Ilya pulled on his damp clothes, he noticed the bathroom door was cracked open. He pushed the door wider, gazing through the steam and fog at Hollander’s naked form.
“Hey, Hollander,” he called.
“Yeah?”
“You might beat me today, but you are not—um—what did you say? Once in a lifetime?” Ilya spoke teasingly, achingly.
“Get out of my apartment, Rozanov,” Hollander yelled.
Ilya slipped out the door soundlessly. Ambling down the stairs, he felt the marks on his back start to itch. Ilya began to pull on his jacket—but decided against it. He stepped out into the rain. It hurt so fucking good.