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It’s 6 p.m. in New Jersey and Shane, who has been sitting on his couch for the past forty-five minutes, finally switches channels to ESPN. He knows when Boston plays only because he’s the Metros captain and it’s important to keep an eye on the competition if he wants to lift another Stanley Cup by the end of this season. As usual, Montreal and Boston are both Cup favorites, and Shane can’t imagine Ilya Rozanov being any less hungry for the trophy than he is.
He watches Rozanov skate to center ice for the face-off, where Olson, the Stars’ center, is already waiting for him.
“Hi,” Rozanov says with a sly curve to his mouth and a twinkle in his eye. He’s mic’d up; Shane sits up straight. “Still don’t get why your logo is a star when you have none on your team.”
Olson bends down, staring at the ice between them. “Fuck off, faggot.”
“551.”
Olson looks up sharply. “What?”
Rozanov smiles, and wins the face-off. Shane frowns as Rozanov flies down the ice, the puck never straying from the blade of his stick. He passes to Marleau, who’s all alone, and outskates two opposing defenders. Shane sees the opening, and holds his breath as Marleau sends the puck back to Rozanov. A second later, it’s 1-0 Boston.
“What a goal by Ilya Rozanov! Thirty-two seconds into the game,” one of the two commentators says, “and that is already highlight-of-the-night material.”
“I guess you could say he’s good, huh?” quips the second.
On-screen, Rozanov gives Olson’s shoulder a condescending, sarcastically apologetic pat and says, “402,” before he’s swarmed by his celebrating teammates.
Shane’s phone lights up with a text. It’s Hayden. Are you seeing this? What a fucking asshole.
Someone’s going to punch him, Shane texts back, Good goal though.
Jackie’s in this WAG group chat with Olson’s girlfriend, Hayden sends. She’s scared Olson’s losing a tooth tonight.
Shane locks his phone and looks back at the TV just in time for another face-off. The cameraman has zoomed in on Rozanov’s face, so Shane can see his shockingly vivid blue-green eyes, the sweat glistening on his upper lip, the sharp cut of his jawline. The goal keeps replaying in Shane’s mind and, because apparently there’s something fundamentally wrong with Shane’s brain — which he’s known since the day of his draft, when he’d jerked off to the thought of kissing Rozanov —, it makes his dick twitch.
“Did you like that?” Rozanov is asking Olson, but it’s Shane who feels heat flood his body.
All of a sudden, he wants to text Rozanov, tell him he’s watching, tell him to score a hat-trick so Shane has something to work towards when he plays San Francisco tomorrow. He wants the commentators to compare their shooting percentages, their plus/minus ratings, their goals scored on power plays, and he wants them to see that it’s only them at the top, that no one else even comes close.
He shoves his hand underneath the waistband of his sweats and curls his fingers around the base of his dick.
“Go back to Russia, you ugly fuck,” Olson growls, which is ridiculous because Rozanov is the furthest thing from ugly and everybody knows it. He’s beautiful — wet and naked in the shower, stroking himself, or on his knees with his soft tongue licking up and down the length of Shane’s dick, or behind Shane and deep inside him. He’s not ugly now, either, sweaty and confident and so fucking skilled on the ice.
Shane feels himself grow hard against his palm as he watches Rozanov’s smile widen.
“Knock it off, both of you,” the ref warns, but of course Rozanov is already opening his mouth again.
“7699.”
Somehow, those four digits are enough to provoke Olson into action; he doesn’t drop his gloves but raises his stick and cross-checks Rozanov hard enough that Marleau has to steady him with a hand to his back. But Rozanov just laughs in Olson’s face, baiting him, and then getting slashed for it.
Knew it was coming, Hayden texts Shane. A moment later, Dude, Jackie’s group chat is freaking out. Those numbers Rozanov said are Olson’s girl’s phone number.
Shane doesn’t respond. He’s too busy watching two refs and one of Olson’s teammates pull him off Rozanov, who’s clever enough not to fight back. He still gets a penalty for instigating while Olson is sent off the ice for the rest of the game.
“I didn’t do anything,” Rozanov lies to the ref. He’s bleeding from the nose and looking pissed about it. Shane wonders what he expected.
“Are you being a smart-ass?” the ref asks. “Because if you don’t calm down, you can be one from the penalty box.”
Rozanov huffs and lets Marleau push him back into position once his bleeding has stopped. The game continues, and Rozanov flies down the ice, brimming with so much natural talent that he doesn’t have to calculate a single one of his moves. He’s so much better than everyone else that Shane could make him out in a single second, even if Rozanov didn’t have his name and number printed to the back of his jersey.
He wonders, not for the first time, what it’d be like to play with Rozanov. The thought of being on the same line as him makes Shane dizzy with want — they’d dominate the league. They’d collect championship rings and awards, break records and set new ones. The two of them, at the top, together.
“Look out, here he goes,” one of the commentators says as Rozanov deftly steals the puck from another player. “Rozanov’s looking for options, fakes like he’s going to cross, but— yeah, you’re not going to catch him at that point.”
Rozanov is skating past the other team’s defense, the puck glued to his blade, and Shane can’t help but squeeze around his dick as Rozanov just fucking toys with two D-men on his way to the goal.
“That was a big mistake by the home team,” the commentator goes on as the goal horn blasts through the arena. “You give Rozanov a little space, he’s going to take a lot.”
“Yeah, how many times have we seen this from Rozanov?” the other commentator asks. “I don’t think it’s the Stars’ fault, though. It’s the same thing that happens a lot with Shane Hollander, who is of course the Metros’ star center. It’s not that the opposing defense is sloppy — it’s that those two guys are just so good they make scoring look easy.”
Shane drops his head against the backrest of his couch and spreads his legs. His eyes never stray from Rozanov, who’s blowing a kiss at a beer-bellied Stars fan with their middle finger up.
You think he gets off on that? Hayden texts, and Shane fights off the wild urge to send back, I do, just so that Hayden can knock some sense back into him. He feels desperate and stupid, because who the fuck gets hard watching their rival play hockey? He should be cursing at the TV, complaining in the Metros’ group chat about Rozanov being a shit-talking prick or maybe heading to the gym to blow off some steam, not jerking himself off to the thought that while Rozanov is a shit-talking prick, he unfortunately has both the skill and the results to back it up.
Shane wishes Rozanov had been sent off the ice instead of Olson, so he could call him and listen to Rozanov’s deep, sultry voice bring him close to orgasm — to those few perfect moments right before he comes, when he’s too horny to care about the sounds he makes or the words he says.
Shane strokes himself harder, staring at the TV, where Rozanov is, of course, taunting the opposing goalie, who’s wearing a hybrid visor. “Roll up your window,” he’s saying, “I can’t hear you.”
“Fuck,” Shane snorts, half a laugh, and rubs the pad of his thumb over the head of his dick. It comes away wet, and Shane bites his lip as he spreads the liquid all the way down his length. “Fuck.”
He reaches for his phone, opens the camera app, and angles his phone down to take a photo of his hand around his dick. He doesn’t have to scroll far for his iMessage thread with Rozanov, because they’d texted just last night. Good game today, he types out, attaches the photo, and hits send.
He edges himself through the rest of the first period, mostly because Rozanov is called off the ice. He’s back on it for the start of the second, wins the face-off, and assists Connors with another Boston goal.
Shane knows he’s looking for a hat-trick and gets his chance seven minutes later, but then New Jersey #32 sends him into the boards and tries getting in his face, which looks a bit comical because Rozanov is half a head taller than him.
Marleau, of course, is there before anyone can drop their gloves.
“Settle down,” he says, and pushes the defenseman away. “He’s got six inches on you.”
“Yeah,” Rozanov says, grinning around his mouthguard. “And I’m taller.”
Shane flicks his wrist on his next downward stroke and watches as Rozanov finally, inevitably, scores his third goal of the night. He tightens his grip, presses the fingertips of his free hand into the firm muscle of his chest, and comes hard as the goal horn sounds.
He stares up at the ceiling, panting, as he lets the aftershocks wash over his body. He’s shaking a little; if Rozanov was here, he’d hold him down with a steadying hand to his sternum, whispering enough praise to make Shane blush. Good boy, he’d say, and Shane would pretend to be annoyed at him for it.
Shane’s phone lights up with an incoming call. He doesn’t bother checking the caller ID before he answers it.
“You’re a freak,” Rozanov says appreciatively. “I will think about this next time I score against you. Try not to come in your cup, then.”
Shane exhales. He wonders if Rozanov has showered already, if he’s dressed or still half-naked, if he got hard seeing the photo Shane sent him. “You deserved that punch.” Then, “Did you sleep with Olson's girlfriend?”
Rozanov hums. “No. She slipped me her number at the NHL Awards last year but I’m not interested. She is not pretty enough. Not as pretty as you.”
Shane lies back against the cushions, idly running his fingers up and down his abs. “No?”
“I’ll be at the hotel in forty minutes,” Rozanov says, “and then I’ll call you again. I gave you a show tonight. It is your turn to do same for me.”
“I don’t think I can come again,” Shane admits.
Rozanov snorts, but it’s soft. “Yes, you can.”
“Are you— Did you like the photo?”
“Hollander,” Rozanov says, slow and unbelieving. “You’re not seriously asking me that. It is your dick.”
“I got so hard,” Shane breathes, “just watching you play. Is that weird? You’re just… so much better than everyone else tonight. They couldn’t contain you. It looked like you could do whatever you wanted and no one would've been able to stop you.”
“Is a little weird.” Shane can hear his smile by how it softens his accent. “But is also very you.”
“Have you ever…” Shane starts, but his nerves make him drift off. He tries again, “Have you ever thought about what it’d be like to play on, like, the same team?”
“Yes.”
Shane nods. His dick is hard again, heavy against the inside of his thigh. “Forty minutes?”
“Maybe thirty-five if I hurry up.”
“Hurry,” Shane says, squeezing his eyes shut, his heart pounding in anticipation. “Please.”