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Shane Hollander was going to be the death of Ilya Rosanov
Ever since he walked up to Ilya outside the prospect cup, awkward and endearing. His shoulders were tense and his handshake stiff. Idly, Ilya wondered if he would be like that on the ice.
When they played for the first time, Ilya could not believe that the Shane Hollander that chided him for smoking and avoided eye contact was the same one he was seeing now. Surely he must have an identical twin or clone or something. This Shane Hollander was confident, graceful, gliding on the ice like he was born for it. Ilya’s eyebrow quirked up in interest. Maybe this freckle-faced Canadian was not so boring after all.
Ilya wondered what else he might surprise him with.
Russia won the game against Canada and despite the buzz of celebration and hands slapping his shoulder in congratulations, Ilya’s attention drifted to the sagging shoulders of a certain Canadian player.
Whoever was in the hotel gym at 1am, Ilya hoped it wasn’t another player. He wasn’t interested in talking game, or pretending to be impressed about whatever college someone played for. He just wanted to wear himself out until his exhaustion pulled him to sleep. When he opened the door, he braced himself with the possibility of making conversation.
Instead, he was met with a certain disappointed Canadian hockey player. His head was down and he was sucking in air in deep, measured breaths. Ilya smiled to himself and slipped his own headphones in. He glanced at Hollander’s stationery bike, and set his resistance one higher, just to see what the other would do.
Shane Hollander noticed he was there and took a quick glance over, huffing indignantly at his presence. But then, interestingly, he took a look at Ilya’s bike. Without a word, a glance, anything, Shane increased his resistance by two, making his resistance one higher than Ilya’s.
Ilya increased his resistance in turn, bracing his hands on the handlebars.
He could play this game.
As usual, Ilya Rosanov came out on top. He chose not to acknowledge the fact that shane hollander was working out before he got there or how close he had come to tapping out himself. He collapsed to the floor, chest heaving, and greedily drank from his water bottle.
Ilya’s eyes found themselves evaluating Shane's body. His muscled frame heaving with exhaustion, thick thighs falling to the floor and legs splaying open like a silent invitation.
“Montreal is nice, yes?” Ilya asked, if only to hear how wrecked Shane’s voice might sound.
“Yeah, it’s awesome.” Shane breathed out. Ilya did not miss the way the Canadian’s eyes wandered across his body. He let his legs fall more open, watching in satisfaction as Hollander’s eyes slipped down to linger a hair too long on Ilya’s bulge.
“Boston is nice too?” Ilya took the opportunity to stretch his legs forward. He was so close to touching Shane, to feeling the searing heat of skin on skin.
“People seem to like it there” Shane’s words went in one ear and out the other. Ilya took another swig from his bottle, but thinks that all the water in the world couldn’t quench the kind of thirst he had.
Ilya gestures his water bottle at Shane in a silent offering. Shane waves it off, but Ilya wonders if he can push the Canadian. He wonders how easily the other might bend to him. Ilya tries again, shaking the bottle directly at Shane, daring him to say no.
Shane takes the bottle.
Their fingers brush and Ilya takes it all in. Shane’s head tips back and his mouth falls open in an attempt to keep his lips from touching Ilya’s bottle. He gasps between gulps and Ilya can’t help but stare openly at his slick lips, can’t help but imagine what else he might eagerly swallow.
Shane lets the bottle fall and his mouth closes. Ilya is getting greedy and needs to push this as far as he can, to challenge Hollander to this game of chicken.
“More”
It’s barely a whisper, a test to see if the pretty Canadian would obey.
He lifts the bottle to his mouth, less careful this time about his lips touching the bottle. Ilya feels like a hawk with his eyes glued to the column of Shane’s throat. Shane wordlessly hands the bottle back to him and their fingers brush again, but maybe a little bit longer this time. Ilya’s lips wrap around the top of his water bottle and he takes another drink and winks. He thinks he might have seen a blush dusting his freckles as Shane looked away and got up to leave the locker room.
The hotel room shower was nice. The water pressure was good, and Ilya hummed in appreciation at the warm spray hitting his back. He lathered soap over his chest and let his eyes slip closed as steam filled the room. Ilya’s hands slipped lower and he let out a low groan as he grabbed his achingly hard cock. His mind flicked back to Shane, mouth open and eyes hooded, panting in exhaustion. How easily he obeyed when he whispered more.
It was too easy for him to picture Shane on his knees in the shower, avoiding eye contact as he timidly licked at Ilya’s dick. He was obviously inexperienced. He would suckle the tip gently, feeling the weight of Ilya’s cock in his mouth. But he’s seen Hollander compete, and knows that it wouldn’t take long before he tries to take Ilya all the way down to the base. He’d gag a bit, maybe moan on his dick and Ilya groans at the thought of Canada’s golden boy trying so hard to please him, hollowing out his cheeks and looking up at Ilya with his big brown eyes blown wide with lust.
Would Shane touch himself? Desperately palm at his own dick neglected on the shower floor? Or would his fingers sneak behind him and try to fuck himself on his own fingers before begging Ilya to fill him up, to Please fuck me.
Ilya’s hands were moving quickly now, stroking himself in earnest at the thought of a pitifully horny Shane being so pliant and obedient underneath him. He knew he wasn’t going to last long with the image of Shane Hollander and his pretty freckles fighting back tears, plush lips stretched wide around his cock. How beautiful he would look wrecked because of him. Would he cum just like that? Riding his fingers and taking Ilya’s cock to the back of his throat?
Would he even need to be touched?
Ilya comes against the shower wall with a growl, forehead falling to the cool tile as his chest heaves, filling his lungs with air.
Ilya is in bed checking his schedule on his phone, searching for his next game with Montreal, trying to find the exact time he can see those freckles, push those buttons again.
Luckily he and Shane were right, Boston and Montreal do play against each other often.