Chapter Text
Miami
“I washed your jersey. It’s not in the dryer. Did you take it?” Svetlana shouts from the bottom of the stairs.
“Is a fucking relic. Let it go!”
When Ilya washed his clothes after a collab yesterday, he saw that stupid jersey in her basket. He should have gotten rid of it a long time ago.
“Why do you still have it anyway?! It doesn’t mean anything to anyone!” He can’t control the irritation in his voice.
“Even if no one remembers it, I still do, Ilya.”
She sounds so gentle and true. It breaks his heart a little.
“Let it go, Svetlana. Just let it go.”
He hopes it doesn’t come off as too harsh. Svetlana has done so much — he can remain in this country because of her. She said yes when he came up with the crazy plan to get married to apply for citizenship. He cannot imagine what might have happened if he had gone back to Russia.
A useless former athlete who likes men. He would end up more miserable than his brother. That’s for sure. Forever disgraced and erased. Forgotten.
At least now he’s unforgettable. Why wouldn’t he be when he’s in the top 5 male creators on OnlyFans? Ilya takes this job seriously. OnlyFans is his livelihood. Although he’s made millions from sex work, he doesn’t care for it. He suspects that if he had played hockey all these years, he wouldn’t care much for hockey either.
He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him. This apathy to everything. Only his love for Svetlana keeps him going, and her love for him. If God told him all his luck was spent on this friendship, he would believe it.
But she’s going places now. He can’t trap her in this fake marriage for the rest of their lives. With her new luxury car business, she finally gained complete autonomy from her father. They share this house outside of Miami. He can’t live in Boston. He loved it, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever have the courage to go there again. Boston would remind him of the life he could have lived. So he picked Florida. There is a lot of Boston’s crowd here. In this small way, he’s still connected to hockey. And a lot of creators live here. It’s convenient for collabs.
Ilya is a celebrity around here. Of course, he’s famous all over the world (or rather, his body). But people actually invite him to things, like his presence is a good idea. He’s been invited to weddings, birthdays, and even a christening. (He didn’t go to the christening. Svetlana went for him. It’s impossible not to like her at any social event. Unless the person is a prick like his brother.) For the most part, Ilya doesn’t go out — no late nights at bars. No clubs. Not much sex (other than work). Svetlana tries to take him out all the time, but he doesn’t see the point when he barely cares about his life.
Svetlana comes into the room without asking — they are like a real straight couple in many ways, and much more. It’s the main bedroom, but they haven’t had sex for years, not since he started OnlyFans. This bedroom has been their friendship-love nest.
“What’s for dinner?” She flops on the bed next to him.
“Sushi. And I made borscht this morning.”
Ilya opens YouTube on the TV. It’s Svetlana’s account, so most of the recommended videos are about hockey. He freezes. A sharp pain shoots through his leg. Quickly, it’s gone. It could have been his imagination. His injured leg hasn’t hurt like that for years.
One of the videos starts playing. It’s a recent game. Montreal versus San Francisco. The Montreal captain gracefully skates across the screen. Ilya doesn't know any players. Hockey doesn't exist for him now.
Then he feels the remote being pried from his hand. The screen goes black.
“Are you okay?” Svetlana asks softly.
“Fine.”
“Let’s eat dinner?”
I don’t need coaxing! I’m fine! He wants to scream. But he would never yell at her, even when he gets tired of the gentleness. Doesn’t she understand he’s fine? It’s been almost ten years. He shouldn’t care now. The injury. Those months in the hospital. The last time on ice.
“Ilya?”
She shakes his arm.
“Fine.” Then he remembers what she just said. “Yes, let’s eat.”
She smiles, though she looks uncertain.
“Uhm, have you seen Ksenia?”
Ksenia is his therapist. Well, she’s yet to be his therapist.
“No.” He doesn’t want to lie to Svetlana.
“She’s very good. One of the best who speaks Russian. And she’s in the area.”
“I’ll think about it, okay?”
He slips off the bed, avoiding her eyes.
His phone lights up with a message. Svetlana is closer to it, so she grabs it for him.
“Jesus Christ.” She glances at the screen. “It’s Jane again.”
Jane is one of his highest-paying subscribers on OnlyFans. Ilya likes to think of Jane as their username “janeislookingforaman.” Username is more detached. He prefers to keep things professional.
“What does Jane want now? Jane has spent $100,000 on you. At least. And it’s been how many years?”
“I don’t keep track.”
He unlocks his phone and reads the message.
“Well?” She looks at him expectantly.
“Well, what?”
“What does Jane want?”
“Nothing important.”
“Does Jane want to meet you in person?”
Svetlana is so good at reading him. This woman is psychic. Maybe this is why she can be his best friend. He doesn’t have to utter a single word, and she can still understand him as though she slept in his soul every night.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t meet clients.”
She doesn’t argue with him about that. It’s his body. And his body has given enough.
Montreal
Ilya Rozanov’s new OnlyFans video replays in Shane’s head. He shouldn’t be thinking about it in broad daylight. In a restaurant. But the emptiness swelling up in his stomach is not the hunger for food.
Shane woke up this morning half whimpering this man’s name. Every video where Ilya gave a male costar the best orgasm of that person’s life is a permanent landmark in Shane’s brain. It’s more frequent now — the night before a game, Shane would have dreams of Ilya touching him in ways that elicit passionate little noises from him. These dreams are always in fragments: Ilya licks Shane’s neck like licking ice cream on a hot summer day; Ilya munches Shane’s ass, three fingers fully inside him, and Shane is begging for more; Ilya’s cock takes him inch by inch, until it fills up a part of Shane so deep that Shane cannot reach, and Ilya starts fucking him like only Ilya knows how to satisfy Shane, how to bed him the way he always wants to be.
Shane casually scans the restaurant to make sure no one is watching him. Then he opens his chat with ROZANOV.
No reply.
Their conversation ends with Rozanov’s “Thank you, I do not meet any client,” and Shane’s crying emoji.
Shane scrolls up and down several times like he isn’t ready to let it go yet.
Three days have passed since he invited Rozanov to a restaurant opening in Miami. It’ll be in public. They won’t even interact — Shane isn’t that reckless. It’ll just be a one-way, furtive eye fucking from Shane. The Metros are playing in Miami next week. And Rose has come up with this bold but ingenious plan to ask Rozanov out. She gave Shane two seats for a super hyped restaurant opening. Shane isn’t a food expert, but Rozanov’s life updates on OnlyFans are all about food. Rozanov cooks for himself and his roommate. A girl, apparently.
“Still no news from him?”
Shane nearly drops his phone. “Jesus, Rose! Shush.”
Rose Landry sits down opposite him, her hair blown out like golden silk. She’s in town for a brand deal.
“I don’t think he’ll agree.” Shane puts his phone down with a defeating thud on the table.
“There’s still time. He might change his mind.” Rose sounds hopeful. Shane isn’t optimistic about this whole thing.
He groans. “I’m not sure, Rose. This is a terrible idea. It could just be a phase, right? I’ll probably get over him soon. An obsession can’t last forever, right?”
Rose rolls her eyes. “Do you believe that? How long has it been? Since your rookie season —“
“For the record, I didn’t really like him —“
“Because you never got the chance.” She gives me a sad smile. “Listen. This might be your only shot. It won’t hurt. Promise him that he will be safe, and you won’t harass him or try anything. Tell him you only want to meet him from a distance.“
Shane swallows. “Okay. Okay.” He picks up his phone, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. “How do I —“
Rose plucks his phone from him. “Oh my god, you’re hopeless.”
She quickly types something.
“Done.”
I just want to check in again. Please consider it? I promise I won’t bother you. You won’t even notice me. The restaurant is a totally safe place. Their food is excellent. You can take a friend if you like! — Jane
Panic hits Shane. “Rose, we don’t have a third seat!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“Rose. You don’t have to —“
She heaves a dramatic sigh. “I do. You deserve happiness. When are you gonna let someone else in? Wait till you retire? I won’t let you live your youthful and successful years alone.”
“Lucky me, I have you.”
Sometimes he thinks being her best friend is the luckiest thing he’ll ever have.
“And you’ll always have me, Shane. But I wish you could have more.”
Miami
It’s in the middle of the afternoon. Ilya just finished a scene with another creator on OnlyFans. He built a studio on the house's ground floor. Since he’s one of the biggest names in the industry, people usually come to him. He doesn’t travel much.
“May I stay? I was such a good boy for you, yes?”
Ilya is not in the mood to move. Or respond. It’s not exhaustion. He feels empty. If someone tries to do things to him now, he won’t care. He’s surprised he can still get hard for work. So, when the guy takes him in the mouth, Ilya doesn’t react at all.
The guy is a lean, hairless twink with the most talented mouth Ilya has ever seen. Though not exactly Ilya’s type. But this guy has been gaining popularity on OnlyFans like he’s the Prince of Giving Head. Many prospects collab with Ilya to tell the world, “I’ve made it,” so naturally, this guy reached out to him.
Ilya shuts his eyes to relax into the blowjob. He’s not enjoying it. He’s not not enjoying it either. He’s floating. Svetlana once said to him she could feel that his language is touch. Not the rough kind in porn. Rather, the intimate, lingering kind after sex. Despite his career in this industry, Ilya has been a stranger to intimacy. It’s like he lost his most important language.
“You with me?”
The guy’s voice brings Ilya back to the present moment.
“Is it that bad?” The guy simpers. “You enjoyed it with the camera on. Does the camera turn you on then?”
“You should go.”
“Can we do this again? You were great. Now it makes sense to me why people throw money at you.”
The guy strokes Ilya’s thigh like he’s simply admiring the shape and strength of the muscles. There’s nothing sexual about this touch, but it somehow bothers Ilya. Ilya frowns in annoyance.
Then it drifts to Ilya’s shin. To where the scar is.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” Ilya bounces off the couch.
“Sorry!” The guy jumps away from him, his eyes big and scared. Ilya forgets how scary he can be sometimes.
“I need to shower.” Ilya hesitates for a second. “There’s bread in the kitchen. And jam in the fridge. Don’t touch anything else. Eat and leave.”
The fear on the guy’s face dissolves into shock. Ilya ignores him and heads to the bathroom.
“You’re also the nicest.” The guy says after him. He sounds sincere. Ilya doesn’t give a shit.